So, over the course of doing a few small jobs around the house (that should have been done months ago), I've gained some wisdom on hardware stores that I felt like passing on. It is the following:
-Look for the old guy.
You know who I'm talking about. The world-weary senior citizen wearing a red vest, looks disgusted with their surroundings? Yeah. Him. He's the guy you want.
Forget the teen idiot on the register, that twenty-nothing with the vapid smile. No, they're not for you. When it comes to advice on hardware, these people can perform one of two useful things:
1) Tell you "aisle 10."
2) Tell you where to find the old guy.
That's all. Nothing else.
Oh, they'll try. They'll march you to the right aisle for the topic you mention, they might even grab a part off the wall and studiously read the label - "It says here, '3Z-3C,' which means, uh..."
Now if the old guy were here, he'd take your misshapen lump of metal (formerly a valve), squint at it for about a minute, then walk off with it. He will not explain. He doesn't have to, he's the old guy - you came to him, remember?
You and the twenty-nothing tag along behind, the nothing holds up a handful of parts they were about to recommend. "I thought that-"
The old guy looks up, just for a second. The nothing goes quiet and walks away like a beaten dog.
Old guy's got your valve apart, and is staring at a deformed lump of black slag that, in a former life, was a washer of some kind. Old guy is unphased. All of a sudden, he's Grissom, Columbo, Dirty-Frickin' Harry rolled into one.
"Ehrm," he says, holding up a single tapered washer. You stare. "The large rise on the old one tipped me off, its was tapered."
Comprehension sets in. "How much?"
Old guy looks down. "Thirty six cents."
You stop reaching for the ten spot and thank him. Old guy smiles for a second, briefly validated, then lapses back into full blown contempt for the universe.
And then he's gone - no, actually, he's still there having a conversation with himself. But he could be gone - is mentally - he's just waiting for the next petititioner.
"Uh, sir? Do you know anything about plastic garage-door-opener chains?"
Your cue to leave.
Up front, idiot teen takes your money and waits for the register to dispense the correct change. He complains loudly to no one that he hasn't been able to get something to drink for over an hour.
You smile. Despite him and his tag team partner, you found the old guy.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Say it ain't so, Joe
We all love to believe in things, things we set apart from what we see around us everyday.
Like most people, I have many - Stuff I hold up to be admired. Things that, on good days are truly inpiring.
Today I have to cross one off my list.
Soccer. Specifically Italian soccer, and to get to the real point: Juventus.
Soccer is a big money sport and has always had its share of corruption and controversy.
Match fixing, threatening or bribing officials, meddling with player transfers, etc
Well, the Italians have decided to top everyone.
A small group of owners has done all of the above. Not with an eye to winning a big match here and there, but controlling all aspects of the game to pre-determine who will be in contention for the championship, year after year.
If you played against these teams, the officials ruled against you when it mattered, the player's organization didn't allow you access to the best players.
Players and teams outside of this cabal were pressured or marginalized.
And it's full, blown, systemic corruption. The top league officials, the big owners - all the stuff the tinfoil hat people are saying about baseball and football in this country is true in Italy.
My team, Juventus, just won the Scudetto, and I just don't care. Juve is more than up to their neck in it. They're the capos. They're due for having their titles taken from them, and are possibly facing relegation.
- Read the disgrace at the Guardian.
- The BBC's take: Italian football's tangled web
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Doubling down
E went public the other night, so I can post this here to catch the rest of the crowd who hasn't heard yet:
E and I are expecting a new baby as of November - so the boy won't be the only little one in the house.
Cool and scary all at the same time.
E and I are expecting a new baby as of November - so the boy won't be the only little one in the house.
Cool and scary all at the same time.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Signs
Originally, I'd intended to recount my return trip south with Jen and my mom.
Obviously, I haven't found the time - and my memory keeps getting away from me. I do want to get it all down, just don't know how coherent it will be when I finally do.
To prove that point, I'm going to post a recollection from the second trip down south that's been rattling around my head for the past few days.
Mom, Jen and I had driven from upstate New York down through Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Tennessee (all of it gorgeous, by the way - Vermont was incredible, no wonder New Englanders are like that). For most of the trip, it had been like a vacation, snapping photos, admiring the scenery (Eastern Pennsylvania is freaking amazing). We were in Mom's new Lexus, which she'd bought with the money she got when the other vehicles were totaled), and a lot of the trip was spent checking out the new ride.
When we got to Alabama, the mood changed almost instantly. People will laugh, but I was really thinking of Heart of Darkness as we drove south. We all knew something awful awaited us at the end of this trip, and we all were looking around each corner expecting to see proof that we'd finally arrived in the disaster zone.
That downed tree... was it from the storm? or was it just a downed tree? That ruined building, did it collapse? or was it just abandoned?
About an hour of false alarms in an otherwise normal landscape lowered our guard. Stop gawking - it's been over a month and damage has been cleaned up- at least this far north.
Two hours from the coast, I realized that the sun was about to set, and we'd be in darkness before we crossed into Mississippi. Nothing to see here, folks.
disappointment turned into more practical concerns almost immediately. Gas had been scarce, we'd top off the tank before we left Alabama, Mom was getting her proof of residence together because we'd arrive after curfew. If we were stopped without it, we would not be allowed into her neighborhood.
We're in the middle of sorting this out, when out of the corner of my eye I see a billboard, gutted and wind-blown going by on our left.
Is that...?
And then another, and another.
We're easily 100 miles from the coast and virtually every billboard has been reduced to a skeleton and tattered scraps.
Fast food signs are bent like pretzels, gas station gantries slant at improbable angles, and then come the trees. Whole swaths of trees blown flat on both sides of the highway. Acre after acre of split timber, and this is over sixty miles from the coastline.
By the time we got to Mobile, any doubt that the damage wasn't anywhere near cleaned up was long gone. Highway signs were randomly destroyed or oddly unaffected - enough remained so navigating was not a problem. Night fell hard and it was difficult to determine if the darkness was normal, or amplified by power outages.
When we crossed into Mississippi, any curiosity was long gone, replaced by raw disbelief. My parent's neighborhood was a shambles, and the month since the storm had only intensified this fact - since the owners of flooded houses were tearing out ruined walls and possessions and flinging them to the curb.
On my parent's street, we drove slowly - flanked by six-foot piles of debris the entire length of the road.
And then we were home.
Obviously, I haven't found the time - and my memory keeps getting away from me. I do want to get it all down, just don't know how coherent it will be when I finally do.
To prove that point, I'm going to post a recollection from the second trip down south that's been rattling around my head for the past few days.
Mom, Jen and I had driven from upstate New York down through Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Tennessee (all of it gorgeous, by the way - Vermont was incredible, no wonder New Englanders are like that). For most of the trip, it had been like a vacation, snapping photos, admiring the scenery (Eastern Pennsylvania is freaking amazing). We were in Mom's new Lexus, which she'd bought with the money she got when the other vehicles were totaled), and a lot of the trip was spent checking out the new ride.
When we got to Alabama, the mood changed almost instantly. People will laugh, but I was really thinking of Heart of Darkness as we drove south. We all knew something awful awaited us at the end of this trip, and we all were looking around each corner expecting to see proof that we'd finally arrived in the disaster zone.
That downed tree... was it from the storm? or was it just a downed tree? That ruined building, did it collapse? or was it just abandoned?
About an hour of false alarms in an otherwise normal landscape lowered our guard. Stop gawking - it's been over a month and damage has been cleaned up- at least this far north.
Two hours from the coast, I realized that the sun was about to set, and we'd be in darkness before we crossed into Mississippi. Nothing to see here, folks.
disappointment turned into more practical concerns almost immediately. Gas had been scarce, we'd top off the tank before we left Alabama, Mom was getting her proof of residence together because we'd arrive after curfew. If we were stopped without it, we would not be allowed into her neighborhood.
We're in the middle of sorting this out, when out of the corner of my eye I see a billboard, gutted and wind-blown going by on our left.
Is that...?
And then another, and another.
We're easily 100 miles from the coast and virtually every billboard has been reduced to a skeleton and tattered scraps.
Fast food signs are bent like pretzels, gas station gantries slant at improbable angles, and then come the trees. Whole swaths of trees blown flat on both sides of the highway. Acre after acre of split timber, and this is over sixty miles from the coastline.
By the time we got to Mobile, any doubt that the damage wasn't anywhere near cleaned up was long gone. Highway signs were randomly destroyed or oddly unaffected - enough remained so navigating was not a problem. Night fell hard and it was difficult to determine if the darkness was normal, or amplified by power outages.
When we crossed into Mississippi, any curiosity was long gone, replaced by raw disbelief. My parent's neighborhood was a shambles, and the month since the storm had only intensified this fact - since the owners of flooded houses were tearing out ruined walls and possessions and flinging them to the curb.
On my parent's street, we drove slowly - flanked by six-foot piles of debris the entire length of the road.
And then we were home.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Blue Sky Mining (comes to my rescue)
Okay, so yesterday afternoon, I happen to run across one of the managers where I work, and she's asking me to do a few things for her, and I'm good with it. Near the end of the conversation, she casually says "See you tomorrow at 9:30."I'm like, huh?
"The presentation?"
I'm Presenting?
"Yes, to the [whatever] people, it's not on your calendar?"
Err...
"I'll send it to you."
Out the door, a little flat-footed, but I know the material, and I've presented it before. Null perspiration.
So this a.m., I'm checking the appointment, and find I don't know the room. In a complex that spans three massive buildings, this is problematic. In the system, it's listed as "Auditorium." Not a good sign. So I ask around and people direct me to the only one they know of, the one that seats 150 people.
Err...
I peek my head in and verify this is the right place, and it is.
I'm not just presenting to the [whatever] people, I'm presenting to ALL of them. Oh, and we're being taped. So it can be made into a streaming video for the masses.
Err...
So, I'm outside getting my collective Sugar, Honey, Ice Tea together, and remember My iPod arrived yesterday, and Ms. no-H has thoughtfully provided me with some tunes to get me rolling.
Quick flip of the menu and I find Midnight Oil>Blue Sky Mine. A great intro with harmonica.
Buds in, push play.
Hey, Hey, Hey, Heeeeeyyyyyy....
Much better.
Nerves gone. Buds out. Game time.
Veni, Vidi, Vici baby.
"The presentation?"
I'm Presenting?
"Yes, to the [whatever] people, it's not on your calendar?"
Err...
"I'll send it to you."
Out the door, a little flat-footed, but I know the material, and I've presented it before. Null perspiration.
So this a.m., I'm checking the appointment, and find I don't know the room. In a complex that spans three massive buildings, this is problematic. In the system, it's listed as "Auditorium." Not a good sign. So I ask around and people direct me to the only one they know of, the one that seats 150 people.
Err...
I peek my head in and verify this is the right place, and it is.
I'm not just presenting to the [whatever] people, I'm presenting to ALL of them. Oh, and we're being taped. So it can be made into a streaming video for the masses.
Err...
So, I'm outside getting my collective Sugar, Honey, Ice Tea together, and remember My iPod arrived yesterday, and Ms. no-H has thoughtfully provided me with some tunes to get me rolling.
Quick flip of the menu and I find Midnight Oil>Blue Sky Mine. A great intro with harmonica.
Buds in, push play.
Hey, Hey, Hey, Heeeeeyyyyyy....
Much better.
Nerves gone. Buds out. Game time.
Veni, Vidi, Vici baby.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
The Goverment turned me into a Pod person...
Okay, I got my state tax refund today, and the sudden influx of cash made me do a foolish thing.
I've ordered an iPod.
So, I'm riding the post-buy buzz and waiting for the remorse to set in...
Any iPodders out there with ramping-up advice for a new Pod-ling? (I'm looking at you, Ms. no-H)
I've ordered an iPod.
So, I'm riding the post-buy buzz and waiting for the remorse to set in...
Any iPodders out there with ramping-up advice for a new Pod-ling? (I'm looking at you, Ms. no-H)
Thursday, April 13, 2006
You think you've got it bad...
"We receive a billion emails a month;
900 million of them are spam."
-William Vass, Sun Microsystems CIO,
speaking at Forrester's IT Forum 2006: GigaWorld.
900 million of them are spam."
-William Vass, Sun Microsystems CIO,
speaking at Forrester's IT Forum 2006: GigaWorld.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Star Witness
Ok, I'll grant that right now I'm pretty susceptible, it being 7:44 on a Friday night and I’m here at work, up to my neck in it – but I’m getting seriously messed up by Neko Case’s ‘Star Witness’ right now…
Give it a listen (.ra file on NPR.org). The lady can bring it.
Give it a listen (.ra file on NPR.org). The lady can bring it.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Mental note
I complain about my memory. Forgetting where I put stuff, forgetting to do things...
picture this: not being able to forget anything.
-----------------------------------
Jorge Luis Borges, the great Argentine writer of the 20th century, wrote of the Uruguayan Funes the Memorious, whose perception and memory became infallible after falling from a horse in the mid 1880s:
We, in a glance, perceive three wine glasses on the table; Funes saw all the shoots, clusters, and grapes of the vine. He remembered the shapes of the clouds in the south at dawn on the 30th of April of 1882, and he could compare them in his recollection with the marbled grain in the design of a leather-bound book which he had seen only once, and with the lines in the spray which an oar raised in the Rio Negro on the eve of the battle of the Quebracho. These recollections were not simple; each visual image was linked to muscular sensations, thermal sensations, etc. He could reconstruct all his dreams, all his fancies. Two or three times he had reconstructed an entire day.
And thus Ireneo Funes lived like no other before or since, remembering all that had happened to him. And remembering that he remembered. This vicious cycle led not to the incalculable awakening of genius that one might expect. Instead, it led to the opposite: a painful sagacity of everything he wished to forget.
(From bokardo.com)
picture this: not being able to forget anything.
-----------------------------------
Jorge Luis Borges, the great Argentine writer of the 20th century, wrote of the Uruguayan Funes the Memorious, whose perception and memory became infallible after falling from a horse in the mid 1880s:
We, in a glance, perceive three wine glasses on the table; Funes saw all the shoots, clusters, and grapes of the vine. He remembered the shapes of the clouds in the south at dawn on the 30th of April of 1882, and he could compare them in his recollection with the marbled grain in the design of a leather-bound book which he had seen only once, and with the lines in the spray which an oar raised in the Rio Negro on the eve of the battle of the Quebracho. These recollections were not simple; each visual image was linked to muscular sensations, thermal sensations, etc. He could reconstruct all his dreams, all his fancies. Two or three times he had reconstructed an entire day.
And thus Ireneo Funes lived like no other before or since, remembering all that had happened to him. And remembering that he remembered. This vicious cycle led not to the incalculable awakening of genius that one might expect. Instead, it led to the opposite: a painful sagacity of everything he wished to forget.
(From bokardo.com)
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Little help
Saw this in today's Sun Herald:
Somebody oughta know. Read the rest here.
Mississippi's Invisible Coast
"Our plea to newspapers and television and radio and Web sites across the land is no less important today: Please, tell our story. Hear the voice of our people and tell it far and wide.
We are here. Do not forsake us.
We are no footnote."
Somebody oughta know. Read the rest here.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Live now, write later
As most would have guessed, this blog has been written retroactively.
The recollections are as good as I can make them - and I have every intention of completing the events of that week.
This post is realtime, and my sister and I are about to get in the car to take mom home. Mom has no phones and no internet, and while I've explored posting via cell. I've come to the conclusion that writing is best done in quiet reflection, and this is not likely to happen in the coming week.
The full story will be posted - it has to get out of my head - but it will be the 17th of October before I'm back from Mississippi.
The recollections are as good as I can make them - and I have every intention of completing the events of that week.
This post is realtime, and my sister and I are about to get in the car to take mom home. Mom has no phones and no internet, and while I've explored posting via cell. I've come to the conclusion that writing is best done in quiet reflection, and this is not likely to happen in the coming week.
The full story will be posted - it has to get out of my head - but it will be the 17th of October before I'm back from Mississippi.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Non sequiturs
It's getting away from me - and some gaps are simply too large to ignore.
Some of the things I don't want to lose:
Some of the things I don't want to lose:
- C's wife watching our boy so that E and I can go into the service together. She's the absolute model of decorum and charm the entire weekend.
- C's showing up in jeans and a blazer, because they'd packed in such a rush. They'd bought a shirt en route or he'd have been Sonny Crocket in jeans, Tee-shirt and a blazer. He's a champ, that one.
- Jen's in-laws watching her boys in the nursery. It is the only time I see any of them, it was as if they were there and gone between blinks.
- G's wife T giving me a hug before they go. G promising to give Notre Dame "my regards" as they drive by South Bend (in about seven hours).
- My little guy. Dressed up and happy to see everyone, oblivious to it all.
- BJ complaining to my mother that the coffee she was serving was "too strong yesterday, and too weak today." Well, thanks so much, BJ. Next time one of our immediate family dies, we'll be sure to double-check the coffee.
- One of my cousins telling me that dad often bragged on me to family. Something I could scarcely imagine, much less believe.
- Someone telling me at the internment. "Well, you're the man of the family, now." Biting back my first impulse, I opt for "Don't you say that."
- Talking with dad's cousin, DB at the internment. We have a nice talk and I float part of the eulogy I will never give- that dad was spared the one thing that I'm sure he could never stand: losing the ability to do things for himself. I shouldn't have said this to DB. Fortune has not been kind to his family, and that's a little too close to where he lives right now.
He says that it would be terrible to just exist, and not be able to contribute anything. I can tell he's upset - We change the subject.
- And Grandma. Such an undeserved hardship after such a charitable life. If there is a God, he's got a lot to answer for.
Souvenir
The internment is at one, and it is to be family only. Mom told me that this of course includes my friends and I pass this along.
I'm unsure how I would react to such an offer, but G & C and the gang take it in stride. Of course they'll come along. I'm glad - having them around has really helped.
I pass my cousin in the parking lot, and he begins telling me a story about him and my dad. It means a lot to him, and it clearly takes a lot to tell it. I'm just a million miles away while he does it, though.
I'm remembering my dad teaching my cousin to ride a bike. Dad's brother had said that my cousin wasn't ready yet - and my dad went outside to prove him wrong. By the end of the day, my cousin was riding a bike - and I always thought that was a lousy thing for my father to do, rob his brother of that moment. Sensitivity be damned, dad got it done.
My cousin finishes up and I drift back into the conversation. We collect mom and head to the internment.
I have a fairly active imagination and along the way to the cemetery I'm remembering the thousands of times I have imagined a moment like this one. Any time my mind is idle, it begins conjuring up horrors and dramas to throw at me until I make it stop. I've envisioned almost every conceivable family tragedy over and over.
Mini-dramas from beginning to end, the phone call, the funeral, every anguished moment.
I've no idea why this happens, or - more accurately - why I do this to myself. But I have, and I do - and never, in any of these scenarios did I imagine my father.
The nightmares and imagined tragedies now seem like grade-school fiction. Incomplete, inadequate, and born of no real experience.
Dad's casket is out in the sun - it's a lovely day and we join the crowd gathering around it.
I think the pastor was expecting an small affair with immediate family - when the full multitude of extended family arrives, he's clearly overwhelmed. He has nothing prepared, and quickly launches into prayer.
Mom's been concerned for days that this service would degenerate into an endless stream of remembrances, and - lacking direction - we are clearly headed that way. As soon as the pastor stops talking, I'm afraid we'll be listening to everyone's favorite Dad story, each in turn.
And then something great happens: The cousins begin to sing.
They're a musical group by nature - and lots of times I wished they're weren't. But today, now, I close my eyes and just soak it up.
A sunny day, a slight breeze, and a hymn sung a Capella. This was how everything should have been. No church, no fool of a pastor, just a family singing a lament for one of their own.
After a few hymns, mom steps forward and takes the flag off dad's casket. I tell her she'd best keep moving or people will begin to fill the silence with whatever comes to mind.
At that moment, to prove my point, mom's brother (who was a Marine for about five minutes) steps forward and salutes the coffin.
With that, everyone seems to know it's over.
I'm turning to thank G & C and everyone for coming all this way, and Mom's brother stops me.
"The crosses, they come off."
I look at him uncomprehendingly.
"You get one, so does M and your mom and your sister."
He's pointing at the casket. The funeral director is grappling with one of the Gaelic crosses affixed to each corner. He gives a mighty heave and it snaps free. Triumphant, he hands me the cross.
Not having any idea how to react, I take it and walk over to the gang, while other family members - having seen this, descend on the casket to remove the other three crosses.
I thank everyone for coming and say my goodbyes.
A&C ask me about the cross I'm holding - and the words just fall out of my mouth.
"Apparently, modern coffins come with souvenirs."
I don't let it bother me. It it so good to see everyone.
I'm unsure how I would react to such an offer, but G & C and the gang take it in stride. Of course they'll come along. I'm glad - having them around has really helped.
I pass my cousin in the parking lot, and he begins telling me a story about him and my dad. It means a lot to him, and it clearly takes a lot to tell it. I'm just a million miles away while he does it, though.
I'm remembering my dad teaching my cousin to ride a bike. Dad's brother had said that my cousin wasn't ready yet - and my dad went outside to prove him wrong. By the end of the day, my cousin was riding a bike - and I always thought that was a lousy thing for my father to do, rob his brother of that moment. Sensitivity be damned, dad got it done.
My cousin finishes up and I drift back into the conversation. We collect mom and head to the internment.
I have a fairly active imagination and along the way to the cemetery I'm remembering the thousands of times I have imagined a moment like this one. Any time my mind is idle, it begins conjuring up horrors and dramas to throw at me until I make it stop. I've envisioned almost every conceivable family tragedy over and over.
Mini-dramas from beginning to end, the phone call, the funeral, every anguished moment.
I've no idea why this happens, or - more accurately - why I do this to myself. But I have, and I do - and never, in any of these scenarios did I imagine my father.
The nightmares and imagined tragedies now seem like grade-school fiction. Incomplete, inadequate, and born of no real experience.
Dad's casket is out in the sun - it's a lovely day and we join the crowd gathering around it.
I think the pastor was expecting an small affair with immediate family - when the full multitude of extended family arrives, he's clearly overwhelmed. He has nothing prepared, and quickly launches into prayer.
Mom's been concerned for days that this service would degenerate into an endless stream of remembrances, and - lacking direction - we are clearly headed that way. As soon as the pastor stops talking, I'm afraid we'll be listening to everyone's favorite Dad story, each in turn.
And then something great happens: The cousins begin to sing.
They're a musical group by nature - and lots of times I wished they're weren't. But today, now, I close my eyes and just soak it up.
A sunny day, a slight breeze, and a hymn sung a Capella. This was how everything should have been. No church, no fool of a pastor, just a family singing a lament for one of their own.
After a few hymns, mom steps forward and takes the flag off dad's casket. I tell her she'd best keep moving or people will begin to fill the silence with whatever comes to mind.
At that moment, to prove my point, mom's brother (who was a Marine for about five minutes) steps forward and salutes the coffin.
With that, everyone seems to know it's over.
I'm turning to thank G & C and everyone for coming all this way, and Mom's brother stops me.
"The crosses, they come off."
I look at him uncomprehendingly.
"You get one, so does M and your mom and your sister."
He's pointing at the casket. The funeral director is grappling with one of the Gaelic crosses affixed to each corner. He gives a mighty heave and it snaps free. Triumphant, he hands me the cross.
Not having any idea how to react, I take it and walk over to the gang, while other family members - having seen this, descend on the casket to remove the other three crosses.
I thank everyone for coming and say my goodbyes.
A&C ask me about the cross I'm holding - and the words just fall out of my mouth.
"Apparently, modern coffins come with souvenirs."
I don't let it bother me. It it so good to see everyone.
Chatter
We go downstairs, into the waiting throng. There's a huge line for food and the church's layout ensures maximum snarl. I cut through to find mom - people shift rapidly from annoyance to sympathy as I bump awkwardly through them.
Dad knew a lot of people, and I know virtually none of them. Most are good enough to identify themselves, but I'm not really in a good mindset for retaining anything.
"Thank you, thank you. Yes. Yes.... Yes."
I meet up with mom, E and the rest, take my turn in line for food, and ultimately find myself parked with G, C and the gang.
The basement is sweltering and soon we're upstairs, commandeering a room and talking about subjects that have no business being discussed in church. We're jolted back into good behavior when one of the church ladies arrives to take our picture.
Cheese.
Dad knew a lot of people, and I know virtually none of them. Most are good enough to identify themselves, but I'm not really in a good mindset for retaining anything.
"Thank you, thank you. Yes. Yes.... Yes."
I meet up with mom, E and the rest, take my turn in line for food, and ultimately find myself parked with G, C and the gang.
The basement is sweltering and soon we're upstairs, commandeering a room and talking about subjects that have no business being discussed in church. We're jolted back into good behavior when one of the church ladies arrives to take our picture.
Cheese.
Pallbearer
Lining up to be a pallbearer, I just can't help from getting mad again.
When L had phoned me at home to offer to help with the funeral in any way, I had passed this on to mom. She had naturally, invited him to speak and to be a pallbearer. At that point, adding L meant we had an odd number, so mom asked me to step in as well.
When the moment comes, I'm near the front end of the casket, so I just take hold of the front right handle- only to be interrupted by dad's youngest brother
"No. L goes first."
I let go and look at him.
Are you serious?
L steps in front of me and takes hold, and we all carry dad's casket into the back of the hearse.
Where I was in "the order" was the last thing in the world I would have thought about, and now it's the only thing I'm thinking about.
What a crock.
When L had phoned me at home to offer to help with the funeral in any way, I had passed this on to mom. She had naturally, invited him to speak and to be a pallbearer. At that point, adding L meant we had an odd number, so mom asked me to step in as well.
When the moment comes, I'm near the front end of the casket, so I just take hold of the front right handle- only to be interrupted by dad's youngest brother
"No. L goes first."
I let go and look at him.
Are you serious?
L steps in front of me and takes hold, and we all carry dad's casket into the back of the hearse.
Where I was in "the order" was the last thing in the world I would have thought about, and now it's the only thing I'm thinking about.
What a crock.
Eulogy
Jen's in-laws are watching the boy, so E and I can go in and see dad together. By this time I've had it and the two of us just stand there until the people waiting behind gently herd us to the back of the church.
There are a lot of people. It's hard to say that without seeming proud of that fact, but I was - and there were a lot of people.
Mom had stopped near the entrance to the church and a line of people formed almost instantly - each person waiting their turn to offer condolences to the widow. Mom kept moving forward to greet people and soon she was in the driveway, with people lined up into the parking lot in the sun. I brought her inside so at least these people would be in the shade.
E's sister arrived with her husband, they'd had a hell of a trip up from Chicago, but they were here.
Jen moved through the crowd greeting and visiting - she knew so many of them, and she was always better at this sort of thing. I found an out of the way place to stand and readied my pat responses. Thank you. Yes. Thank you.
A classmate, a co-worker, uncles, cousins. They keep coming and I run out of things to say.
The service begins, and we file into our reserved seats. Front row, center. Three feet from dad's casket.
The pastor tries hard, but there's nothing he can say to me. He'd barely met my father, and is only a little older than I am. He talks of an end to suffering and is mercifully brief.
A family friend sings my dad's favorite hymns. It is for me, the first genuine moment of the service.
Then L stands to deliver the eulogy. He's been a wreck all morning, but there's no doubt he'll pull it together. He's a politician, a former radio host, and a natural showman. He's polished, funny and well-spoken - and I am in no mood for any of it.
He said "Guess God must have wanted something fixed." I laughed - we all did - but it was the kind of joke that goes sour almost instantly. I stare at the casket and go into my own head.
Part of me has been wanting to speak at the funeral since that first day. I'd been mentally preparing ever since. Mom put paid to that idea when she said that the wanted the funeral to be short and simple. "I don't want this to turn into a drawn out affair," she'd said more than once.
It was the right decision for so many reasons. If she invited more than one person to talk, everyone would. A prolonged lament wouldn't be good for anyone.
I really wanted to say something, though. Say all the things I'd never said to dad when he was alive. My eulogy would not have been uplifting. It would have been filled with self-reproach, self-pity and regret. I doubt I would have been able to pull it off in front of a crowd. It would have been exactly the kind of thing mom wanted to avoid.
The service ends and the family stands and files out behind the coffin. I've spent the end of the service shutting out the whole room, so it's a bit of a sudden realization that we will be walking out first - past the entire congregation. As if anyone would care what I looked like, I try to keep my composure on the way out. This holds until I run into some friends from college I didn't know were coming. A&C had somehow found out and driven until they were standing right in front of me. They are such decent people - and the sight of them just ruins me.
There are a lot of people. It's hard to say that without seeming proud of that fact, but I was - and there were a lot of people.
Mom had stopped near the entrance to the church and a line of people formed almost instantly - each person waiting their turn to offer condolences to the widow. Mom kept moving forward to greet people and soon she was in the driveway, with people lined up into the parking lot in the sun. I brought her inside so at least these people would be in the shade.
E's sister arrived with her husband, they'd had a hell of a trip up from Chicago, but they were here.
Jen moved through the crowd greeting and visiting - she knew so many of them, and she was always better at this sort of thing. I found an out of the way place to stand and readied my pat responses. Thank you. Yes. Thank you.
A classmate, a co-worker, uncles, cousins. They keep coming and I run out of things to say.
The service begins, and we file into our reserved seats. Front row, center. Three feet from dad's casket.
The pastor tries hard, but there's nothing he can say to me. He'd barely met my father, and is only a little older than I am. He talks of an end to suffering and is mercifully brief.
A family friend sings my dad's favorite hymns. It is for me, the first genuine moment of the service.
Then L stands to deliver the eulogy. He's been a wreck all morning, but there's no doubt he'll pull it together. He's a politician, a former radio host, and a natural showman. He's polished, funny and well-spoken - and I am in no mood for any of it.
He said "Guess God must have wanted something fixed." I laughed - we all did - but it was the kind of joke that goes sour almost instantly. I stare at the casket and go into my own head.
Part of me has been wanting to speak at the funeral since that first day. I'd been mentally preparing ever since. Mom put paid to that idea when she said that the wanted the funeral to be short and simple. "I don't want this to turn into a drawn out affair," she'd said more than once.
It was the right decision for so many reasons. If she invited more than one person to talk, everyone would. A prolonged lament wouldn't be good for anyone.
I really wanted to say something, though. Say all the things I'd never said to dad when he was alive. My eulogy would not have been uplifting. It would have been filled with self-reproach, self-pity and regret. I doubt I would have been able to pull it off in front of a crowd. It would have been exactly the kind of thing mom wanted to avoid.
The service ends and the family stands and files out behind the coffin. I've spent the end of the service shutting out the whole room, so it's a bit of a sudden realization that we will be walking out first - past the entire congregation. As if anyone would care what I looked like, I try to keep my composure on the way out. This holds until I run into some friends from college I didn't know were coming. A&C had somehow found out and driven until they were standing right in front of me. They are such decent people - and the sight of them just ruins me.
Visitors
The boy is up earlier than usual, so we're downstairs when the rest of the crew wakes up. Jen and her husband, their boys, mom - we're all bouncing around the house - taking food in turns.
There's a flurry of people, we get dressed in our best and then we're taking mom in.
At the church, we park and are walking up the front ramp when we are greeted by mom's brothers. One look at their faces and we're up to our necks. That side of the family is pretty big hearted, mom's younger brother isn't taking it well, her oldest brother and his wife take mom by the hand and go in.
On the way in are two cousins I've never met. From their mannerisms and conversation, I can tell I haven't missed much. My wife has the boy, so - unthinking - I enter the main room where my dad is.
I've often said that the worst thing I've ever seen was Grandma crying, that's not really true. The worst thing I've ever seen happened right in this church, right where I'm standing.
My grandfather's funeral was also held here, many years ago. I arrived in the entrance of the church for the visitation right when my mother and father were returning from viewing my grandfather's remains.
My dad had just seen his dad's body.
All my life, my father had been many things: furious and kind, blunt and tender, wise and hardheaded. This moment was without precedent.
My father was being helped from the room because he seemed unable to stand. He was shattered and overcome - something I doubted was even possible. Mom was holding him up, and they rushed out of the entryway to somewhere private.
It was, without a doubt, the most frightening and terrible thing I have ever seen.
So I go in, alone, since my wife is with the boy - and because I'm too simple to just wait. So I go in a rushed circuit of the room. I barely look before I'm unable to see anything. Mom's brother thought to pack extra handkerchiefs, so I'm using his to mop up on my way back to the entrance.
More people arrive - L and the rest. I go up again with mom and Grandma, and we all wilt together. Mom remarks that she was afraid of how dad would look because of the swelling of the head injury. "They did a good job," she says.
I can't think. Dad looks nothing like himself - I've never been to a funeral where the person ever does. There's a folded flag and dad is not in uniform, he'd want it that way.
That's when I just can't contain the fury at all of this. So unnecessary, so pointless, a goddamned tree branch. This man swam though a hurricane surge, he was in better shape than his own son, he was not a careless man. He's supposed to teach my son things, he's supposed to help Grandma, mom, the whole damn family. This isn't right, and there's nothing to do but take it.
Grandma's saying something about how it doesn't get easier. Grief, that is.
"No," I say, "We'll just get used to it being this bad."
There's a flurry of people, we get dressed in our best and then we're taking mom in.
At the church, we park and are walking up the front ramp when we are greeted by mom's brothers. One look at their faces and we're up to our necks. That side of the family is pretty big hearted, mom's younger brother isn't taking it well, her oldest brother and his wife take mom by the hand and go in.
On the way in are two cousins I've never met. From their mannerisms and conversation, I can tell I haven't missed much. My wife has the boy, so - unthinking - I enter the main room where my dad is.
I've often said that the worst thing I've ever seen was Grandma crying, that's not really true. The worst thing I've ever seen happened right in this church, right where I'm standing.
My grandfather's funeral was also held here, many years ago. I arrived in the entrance of the church for the visitation right when my mother and father were returning from viewing my grandfather's remains.
My dad had just seen his dad's body.
All my life, my father had been many things: furious and kind, blunt and tender, wise and hardheaded. This moment was without precedent.
My father was being helped from the room because he seemed unable to stand. He was shattered and overcome - something I doubted was even possible. Mom was holding him up, and they rushed out of the entryway to somewhere private.
It was, without a doubt, the most frightening and terrible thing I have ever seen.
So I go in, alone, since my wife is with the boy - and because I'm too simple to just wait. So I go in a rushed circuit of the room. I barely look before I'm unable to see anything. Mom's brother thought to pack extra handkerchiefs, so I'm using his to mop up on my way back to the entrance.
More people arrive - L and the rest. I go up again with mom and Grandma, and we all wilt together. Mom remarks that she was afraid of how dad would look because of the swelling of the head injury. "They did a good job," she says.
I can't think. Dad looks nothing like himself - I've never been to a funeral where the person ever does. There's a folded flag and dad is not in uniform, he'd want it that way.
That's when I just can't contain the fury at all of this. So unnecessary, so pointless, a goddamned tree branch. This man swam though a hurricane surge, he was in better shape than his own son, he was not a careless man. He's supposed to teach my son things, he's supposed to help Grandma, mom, the whole damn family. This isn't right, and there's nothing to do but take it.
Grandma's saying something about how it doesn't get easier. Grief, that is.
"No," I say, "We'll just get used to it being this bad."
Turning in
We get back, the house is dark. Everyone turned in early, so we sneak upstairs and into our bedrooms. My wife is in one room with the boy, I'm in the connecting room.
The boy's out - always been a good sleeper. I line up my clothes for tomorrow and go to bed.
Since Sunday, my waking moments have been filled with me writing a eulogy I will never give. I'm back on the job tonight, but it just is too much. I go to pieces sometime around one and can't get it back together.
Afraid that my wife will hear, I turn it into a coughing fit. That I can suppress, and soon I can quiet down.
Sleep.
The boy's out - always been a good sleeper. I line up my clothes for tomorrow and go to bed.
Since Sunday, my waking moments have been filled with me writing a eulogy I will never give. I'm back on the job tonight, but it just is too much. I go to pieces sometime around one and can't get it back together.
Afraid that my wife will hear, I turn it into a coughing fit. That I can suppress, and soon I can quiet down.
Sleep.
Sauerkraut pizza
I've got one last out, one last personal indulgence before tomorrow. Pizza.
When G called on Monday - I joked that if he came to the funeral, I'd make him go to the local pizzeria and have their specialty: sauerkraut pizza. "Least something good could come out of this, I could finally win you over." G said he'd try it, and I'd been planning for this ever since.
It's not as selfish as it sounds, I wanted to do something to acknowledge my out of town friends. These are people who've maybe spoken to my dad once or twice, but are coming up out of respect for the family. I wanted to make sure we had time to visit.
So it's pizza, sauerkraut pizza to be exact. A local delicacy that the mind recoils from and the taste buds adore.
When I was a kid, the only pizza we had at our house was those Chef Boyardee pizza kits, and mom always made them with cheddar cheese. Needless to say, the first time I went to dad's hometown pizza joint - I was hooked for life. Any other pizza I've had, at best it's a distant second to Frankie's on the east end of town.
C and his wife were delayed, they had a clothes mix-up and had to buy C a shirt in Duluth, so I start by connecting with G and his wife at their hotel. They're great, and I relax immediately. I love my family, but it's easier to feel normal around my friends.
C, his wife, and presumably his new shirt all arrive and we head out for za.
I've been talking the place up, and fretting about how we'll get in (I've called for pizza at 6pm and was told it won't be ready until 9pm) so I'm more than a bit surprised to see the place is deserted. All my life, this place is a place you need a crowbar to get into, and if the wait was two hours, you found something to do and came back.
As soon as we step in it occurs to me, I've only been here on the weekend - we've never lived in this town - so I've only ever come at peak days and times.
We're here at nine-thirty on a Thursday. Not even the local die-hards are here.
I order one with sauerkraut and one with everything else, and the gang gamely gobbles both down. All claim to enjoy the sauerkraut pizza - although, given the circumstances, I doubt any would complain if they were allergic.
It's great to see everyone, and they're all just like I remember them, only thinner. We have a good meal, goof off with the help, and are generally obnoxious. Hell, there's no one else there, we own the place. We break up outside and say our goodbyes 'til tomorrow.
'Best two hours I've had all week.
When G called on Monday - I joked that if he came to the funeral, I'd make him go to the local pizzeria and have their specialty: sauerkraut pizza. "Least something good could come out of this, I could finally win you over." G said he'd try it, and I'd been planning for this ever since.
It's not as selfish as it sounds, I wanted to do something to acknowledge my out of town friends. These are people who've maybe spoken to my dad once or twice, but are coming up out of respect for the family. I wanted to make sure we had time to visit.
So it's pizza, sauerkraut pizza to be exact. A local delicacy that the mind recoils from and the taste buds adore.
When I was a kid, the only pizza we had at our house was those Chef Boyardee pizza kits, and mom always made them with cheddar cheese. Needless to say, the first time I went to dad's hometown pizza joint - I was hooked for life. Any other pizza I've had, at best it's a distant second to Frankie's on the east end of town.
C and his wife were delayed, they had a clothes mix-up and had to buy C a shirt in Duluth, so I start by connecting with G and his wife at their hotel. They're great, and I relax immediately. I love my family, but it's easier to feel normal around my friends.
C, his wife, and presumably his new shirt all arrive and we head out for za.
I've been talking the place up, and fretting about how we'll get in (I've called for pizza at 6pm and was told it won't be ready until 9pm) so I'm more than a bit surprised to see the place is deserted. All my life, this place is a place you need a crowbar to get into, and if the wait was two hours, you found something to do and came back.
As soon as we step in it occurs to me, I've only been here on the weekend - we've never lived in this town - so I've only ever come at peak days and times.
We're here at nine-thirty on a Thursday. Not even the local die-hards are here.
I order one with sauerkraut and one with everything else, and the gang gamely gobbles both down. All claim to enjoy the sauerkraut pizza - although, given the circumstances, I doubt any would complain if they were allergic.
It's great to see everyone, and they're all just like I remember them, only thinner. We have a good meal, goof off with the help, and are generally obnoxious. Hell, there's no one else there, we own the place. We break up outside and say our goodbyes 'til tomorrow.
'Best two hours I've had all week.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Arrival and reunion
We pull into town around one, and we drop mom off directly at the funeral parlor. I want to stay and help her, but mom makes it clear that this is something she'll handle.
She's worried that the clothes she packed for dad are in the suitcase she left with Jen. That would mean one or two hours behind us. I don't see this as a problem, but it wasn't in the plan.
Mom waves us off, tells us she'll call our cell if she needs us, and goes inside.
I just didn't know where to be on that one. Mom might need the help, but she genuinely seems to want to spare me this. I guess I want to be spared.
We drive to Grandma's old house, and see Grandma and my dad's sister B just getting out of their cars. Dad's sister did get the news, and made it back, nice to see the fates aren't that cruel.
Grandma says hello and mentions how nice it is that the house didn't sell and we can all stay together.
I say something stupid, "Things never change." Big grin on my face.
Grandma buckles and says, "everything's changed."
And there goes the composure, right out the window.
The house is eerily like it used to be, albeit with an apartment-sized bite taken out of the furnishings. The living room has three chairs and the entertainment center that dad made, and nothing else.
My aunt tells us that the upstairs rooms are all set, and people have been bringing food all day. F brought by two industrial-sized pans of food, and there's enough lasagna to feed a battalion.
We get the boy set up, he charms the locals, and then the crowds start to arrive. L's here, with his wife I adore - and his brother I don't. Dad's brother is out picking up the youngest brother up from the cities. Family friends of my mother... and on and on.
The ladies from church stop by to ask about themes and decorations for the funeral lunch. Mom's not back yet, so mostly we offer them indecision. At least in my presence, mom was very clear on two things: this was not going to be a drawn-out affair and dad viewed his military career as in the past.
Their American-flag theme goes out the window, and they opt for plan-B and depart. (Well, first they inquire as to who I am for saying so, but since I'm the son - they take my word for it.) At the moment, I'm just too pent up to think nice things about these folks - but later I'm just floored by their energy and drive. Details I would never think of are being handled by people who have never been asked for a thing.
Bad news hit this town and people got busy. Mom told me she got the obit in the paper while she was in Mississippi. She was standing in her back yard, screaming into her cell phone because the connection was so terrible. She's amazed it turned out.
Dozens of details, songs, lunch, music are all being handled without my knowledge or input - all while I'm safely gorging myself Grandma's.
Mom gets back from the funeral parlor and says things are finally set. Jen dropped off dad's clothes before they showed up, so now her two boys mingle with the teeming mass of humanity at the old house.
Mom's surrounded, and I'm no help. I offer some useless advice about who should speak at the funeral, right before I realize that mom's past making more decisions or changes. It's done. The crowd swells, and we become numb to it.
Ten a.m. tomorrow, the onslaught begins.
She's worried that the clothes she packed for dad are in the suitcase she left with Jen. That would mean one or two hours behind us. I don't see this as a problem, but it wasn't in the plan.
Mom waves us off, tells us she'll call our cell if she needs us, and goes inside.
I just didn't know where to be on that one. Mom might need the help, but she genuinely seems to want to spare me this. I guess I want to be spared.
We drive to Grandma's old house, and see Grandma and my dad's sister B just getting out of their cars. Dad's sister did get the news, and made it back, nice to see the fates aren't that cruel.
Grandma says hello and mentions how nice it is that the house didn't sell and we can all stay together.
I say something stupid, "Things never change." Big grin on my face.
Grandma buckles and says, "everything's changed."
And there goes the composure, right out the window.
The house is eerily like it used to be, albeit with an apartment-sized bite taken out of the furnishings. The living room has three chairs and the entertainment center that dad made, and nothing else.
My aunt tells us that the upstairs rooms are all set, and people have been bringing food all day. F brought by two industrial-sized pans of food, and there's enough lasagna to feed a battalion.
We get the boy set up, he charms the locals, and then the crowds start to arrive. L's here, with his wife I adore - and his brother I don't. Dad's brother is out picking up the youngest brother up from the cities. Family friends of my mother... and on and on.
The ladies from church stop by to ask about themes and decorations for the funeral lunch. Mom's not back yet, so mostly we offer them indecision. At least in my presence, mom was very clear on two things: this was not going to be a drawn-out affair and dad viewed his military career as in the past.
Their American-flag theme goes out the window, and they opt for plan-B and depart. (Well, first they inquire as to who I am for saying so, but since I'm the son - they take my word for it.) At the moment, I'm just too pent up to think nice things about these folks - but later I'm just floored by their energy and drive. Details I would never think of are being handled by people who have never been asked for a thing.
Bad news hit this town and people got busy. Mom told me she got the obit in the paper while she was in Mississippi. She was standing in her back yard, screaming into her cell phone because the connection was so terrible. She's amazed it turned out.
Dozens of details, songs, lunch, music are all being handled without my knowledge or input - all while I'm safely gorging myself Grandma's.
Mom gets back from the funeral parlor and says things are finally set. Jen dropped off dad's clothes before they showed up, so now her two boys mingle with the teeming mass of humanity at the old house.
Mom's surrounded, and I'm no help. I offer some useless advice about who should speak at the funeral, right before I realize that mom's past making more decisions or changes. It's done. The crowd swells, and we become numb to it.
Ten a.m. tomorrow, the onslaught begins.
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