Dear Dad,
Amazing. Days like today tug at my sleeve optimistically and ask, "what if?" Such a fantastic verbal duo. What if? It renders boundaries useless as though we are dogs just discovering that the old "invisible fence" doesn't really hold us in. Two words that make no bold statements and claim nothing. In fact, that two-word question makes all things possible, if only in our minds and if only for a second...but, oh, what a beautiful second that is. You were everywhere today. Everywhere.
I have recently come to understand fully what the word "punishing" means. The weather, both in California and in Ohio has been hot. Really hot. Apocalyptically hot. It has been the kind of hot that makes us feel like we must have done something wrong to deserve this misery. It has been punishing. Today was a break in the heat. In fact, the combination of blue sky, delicious wind, and 50s and 60s in the mercury made for the magic carpet that transported me back to that first car ride to Gambier as you and Mom sent me off to college in the Fall. I still remember feeling excited and nervous and very, very happy that you were there to make the excitement bigger than the nerves. It is such a vivid memory that listening to my students talk about getting ready for college sounds more familiar than anything else.
Because I'm heading back to California in two days, Mom and I spent our usual evening talking about the past. She is an excellent resource, and somehow always manages to find stories I've never hear. I love listening to her, and sleepiness at 2:30 in the morning is the only way I can "get tired" of hearing her stories. I look forward to more tomorrow afternoon. We are going to do some wedding planning. I 'm excited about that, but, like most things bittersweet, the excitement also serves to underscore the fact that you are not here...not really. Who is going to dance with me at my wedding?
Right before I surrendered to Hypnos and the Oneiroi, I caught a bit of "Night of the Living Dead" (the 1968 version, not the remake. Bleah.) and watched just a little. My love of zombie movies/paralyzing and pants-wetting fear of zombies themselves stems from our time together, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharing a bowl of way-too-salty popcorn, and watching with horrified delight. "They're coming to get you, BAHbuhra. Look! There's one of them now!" I try not to feel cheated when I think of all the zombie movies that have come out since... We could have gone to them together. My students think this love/hate of the undead is funny, and it has made for some clever (and much appreciated) gifts.
The sky is pinking up soon. My eyes are heavy. The wind pushing past the curtains is a trap. Sleep is coming. Before it gets here, I'll tell you a secret. I'll whisper it so only you can hear it.
(I can't go to sleep until I say teeny-tiny prayers. I don't think I am terribly religious, but I pray every night because I refuse to believe that death is the end, that you are really gone, and that I'll never see you again. Is that the wrong reason to do it? I don't care.)
Goodnight, Dad.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Sunday, June 30, 2013
I'm armed with the past and the will and a brick...
Siouxsie and the Banshees once recorded a song called "92 degrees", which featured an intro sampling some obscure film in which a tense-sounding man is hypothesizing about how temperature affects peoples' moods. It went something along the lines of, "anything less than ninety-two degrees is tolerable; anything more, and you're too tired to move, but at just ninety-two..." and it trails off with ominous portents implied. We have had a rash of what could be called, in no uncertain terms, hot weather here--blisteringly hot (no kiddin'. The news warned people of potential burns from road and sidewalk pavement alike), stiflingly hot (I have watched my poor kittens struggling to take in enough air to cool their little mouths), and even dangerously hot (no joke here. The news has reported a health advisory for the elderly, the infirm, and pets). Perhaps there IS something to it...
...After a leisurely meal in an air-conditioned restaurant, Daniel and I thought we would get our grocery shopping done because it is later at night, and there is less likely to be overcrowding, tension, and rude people (though there WAS a woman smoking one of those Blue electronic cigs...fuh-REAKY looking, those things are). Because it was so hot today, I wasn't terribly surprised to see folks having the same idea we had--to get out of the heat and lazily stroll around in incandescent lighting with soft, "contemporary" music tunes lulling us into consumer bliss. After selecting our num-nums, Daniel and I moved towards the cash registers for our "fast, fun, and friendly checkout". With ten people in line ahead of us, the checkout was going to be far from "fast", and with the visible clouds of bitterness hovering above us, "friendly" was also off the table, but, I'll be damned if it wasn't going to be fun. Daniel is a great companion for passing the time. He's witty and funny and quick, so I was laughing in minutes. One has to imagine that at least some of the people working for the magazines sold by the checkout have got to be writing with the intention of opening the door to celebrity mock-a-thons. I mean, come on! "Will baby North West end up being friends with baby Blue Ivy?" (I felt myself getting dumber just by typing those words)
Perhaps the others in the store were more surprised than we, or perhaps the heat was getting to them. A bottle-blonde woman with skin the color and texture of a catcher's mitt glowered her way past us to the end of the line, she began to boil over almost immediately. She started by loudly badgering her milquetoast husband (I assume), "I wonder why they don't open up a new li-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ine here. This is ridiculousssssssssssssssssssss." When the cashier had the audacity to be too busy trying to move people through the line to listen to her whining about the line, Ol' Mittface decided to really raise the stakes (snicker). She threatened to, "call Safeway on the phone. My ice cream is melting!" I can only imagine how that call might go. She'd call Mr. Safeway on his magical grocery phone where he would listen faux-politely then tell her, "How interesting...except, I have millions of dollars so..." *click*
When she got to the point that she was clearly upsetting the cashier (did I mention that she was the only cashier in the entire store?), someone who may or may not have been me politely suggested that if this was the worst thing that happened to her today, her day was pretty f^*%ing good. I mean, she not only had the two legs to wait on the line and the two arms to hold the melting ice cream, SHE EVEN HAD THE MONEY IN HER POCKET TO PAY FOR THE SHIT!
A person who may or may not have been me even invited an old lady with three items in her cart to go first just to watch Mittface's head explode.
Karma is a funny, funny thing, my friends.
...After a leisurely meal in an air-conditioned restaurant, Daniel and I thought we would get our grocery shopping done because it is later at night, and there is less likely to be overcrowding, tension, and rude people (though there WAS a woman smoking one of those Blue electronic cigs...fuh-REAKY looking, those things are). Because it was so hot today, I wasn't terribly surprised to see folks having the same idea we had--to get out of the heat and lazily stroll around in incandescent lighting with soft, "contemporary" music tunes lulling us into consumer bliss. After selecting our num-nums, Daniel and I moved towards the cash registers for our "fast, fun, and friendly checkout". With ten people in line ahead of us, the checkout was going to be far from "fast", and with the visible clouds of bitterness hovering above us, "friendly" was also off the table, but, I'll be damned if it wasn't going to be fun. Daniel is a great companion for passing the time. He's witty and funny and quick, so I was laughing in minutes. One has to imagine that at least some of the people working for the magazines sold by the checkout have got to be writing with the intention of opening the door to celebrity mock-a-thons. I mean, come on! "Will baby North West end up being friends with baby Blue Ivy?" (I felt myself getting dumber just by typing those words)
Perhaps the others in the store were more surprised than we, or perhaps the heat was getting to them. A bottle-blonde woman with skin the color and texture of a catcher's mitt glowered her way past us to the end of the line, she began to boil over almost immediately. She started by loudly badgering her milquetoast husband (I assume), "I wonder why they don't open up a new li-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ine here. This is ridiculousssssssssssssssssssss." When the cashier had the audacity to be too busy trying to move people through the line to listen to her whining about the line, Ol' Mittface decided to really raise the stakes (snicker). She threatened to, "call Safeway on the phone. My ice cream is melting!" I can only imagine how that call might go. She'd call Mr. Safeway on his magical grocery phone where he would listen faux-politely then tell her, "How interesting...except, I have millions of dollars so..." *click*
When she got to the point that she was clearly upsetting the cashier (did I mention that she was the only cashier in the entire store?), someone who may or may not have been me politely suggested that if this was the worst thing that happened to her today, her day was pretty f^*%ing good. I mean, she not only had the two legs to wait on the line and the two arms to hold the melting ice cream, SHE EVEN HAD THE MONEY IN HER POCKET TO PAY FOR THE SHIT!
A person who may or may not have been me even invited an old lady with three items in her cart to go first just to watch Mittface's head explode.
Karma is a funny, funny thing, my friends.
Monday, January 21, 2013
This house is not my home. I choose to sleep alone. I'm not waiting for the telephone...
Dear Dad,
In my head is a chorus of out-of-tune kids (me being one of them) screeching in their pre-pubescent voices about looking like a monkey (and smelling like one, too). We are clustered around you as you stare into what feels like your millionth chocolate cake, and the light cast off by the candles is warm. I want so badly for this memory to be real. I want so badly to have had some childish magical moment in which this scene inspires a beautiful and artistic epiphany that manifests itself in my adult life as...something. In truth, I'm afraid that the only takeaway from this moment is the memory that every time we sang, I was fixated on when the cake would be cut and how soon I could get it on its way down my alimentary canal.
Sigh.
I baked a chocolate cake today in honor of your birthday. As per usual, it is not as good as mom's cakes are, and, truth be told, I prefer lemon cake, but this is about you...even in your absence. It's okay. My fiance loves chocolate, so it won't go to waste (and it is STILL weird to type that word. How could it not feel weird when I'm just talking about my best friend? We laugh about the formality of it all the time. I wish you could meet him). Oh, whom am I kidding? Chocolate may not be my favorite, but it never goes to waste around me. Insert another sigh here.
Today is also the inaugural celebration for President Obama's second term. I wonder how you would feel about it...not just the celebration but the second term itself. If I had my 'druthers, I would not have had you share your birthday with that...other celebration. You are more magnanimous than I, I'm afraid. I wish I had gotten that part of you. I oscillate wildly between being annoyed and amused by the postings on Facebook (wow...how do I explain THAT one to you? You bought us our first computer, probably without the any inkling of the massive amounts of time that would eventually be wasted in cyberspace). I wish you were here to discuss these things (the political ones, not the Facebook ones). I got a little bit of a taste of grown-up-to-grown-up conversations with you. You always treated my opinions as though they were valid, informed, adult opinions, even when they clearly WEREN'T, but I'd love to have had the chance for real conversation. Would we agree? On some things, I'm sure, but it would be fun to try to convince you about things we don't agree on.
Fiance? Yep. I have somehow managed to obscure my Medusa mask and Mommie Dearest persona for long enough to rope in the best man I have ever met...well...the second best, anyway. We want to have the wedding in the fall, despite the symbolism the season usually carries with it literarily. For us, it is not about things dying; rather, it is about the cooling of unbearable temperatures, and the unmistakable scent and sound of dried leaves as they crush is something Ohio has that California cannot replace. I so hope that the reception is as much fun in reality as it has been in my imagination for the past 30-some years. Is it weird that I have no idea what the dress will look like, but I know what song the first dance will be? What do I do for the father/daughter dance? I am reminded, yet again, that I was not ready to lose you. I'm still not ready.
Time for some chocolate cake. Seventy-two years. Today. Happy birthday, Dad.
In my head is a chorus of out-of-tune kids (me being one of them) screeching in their pre-pubescent voices about looking like a monkey (and smelling like one, too). We are clustered around you as you stare into what feels like your millionth chocolate cake, and the light cast off by the candles is warm. I want so badly for this memory to be real. I want so badly to have had some childish magical moment in which this scene inspires a beautiful and artistic epiphany that manifests itself in my adult life as...something. In truth, I'm afraid that the only takeaway from this moment is the memory that every time we sang, I was fixated on when the cake would be cut and how soon I could get it on its way down my alimentary canal.
Sigh.
I baked a chocolate cake today in honor of your birthday. As per usual, it is not as good as mom's cakes are, and, truth be told, I prefer lemon cake, but this is about you...even in your absence. It's okay. My fiance loves chocolate, so it won't go to waste (and it is STILL weird to type that word. How could it not feel weird when I'm just talking about my best friend? We laugh about the formality of it all the time. I wish you could meet him). Oh, whom am I kidding? Chocolate may not be my favorite, but it never goes to waste around me. Insert another sigh here.
Today is also the inaugural celebration for President Obama's second term. I wonder how you would feel about it...not just the celebration but the second term itself. If I had my 'druthers, I would not have had you share your birthday with that...other celebration. You are more magnanimous than I, I'm afraid. I wish I had gotten that part of you. I oscillate wildly between being annoyed and amused by the postings on Facebook (wow...how do I explain THAT one to you? You bought us our first computer, probably without the any inkling of the massive amounts of time that would eventually be wasted in cyberspace). I wish you were here to discuss these things (the political ones, not the Facebook ones). I got a little bit of a taste of grown-up-to-grown-up conversations with you. You always treated my opinions as though they were valid, informed, adult opinions, even when they clearly WEREN'T, but I'd love to have had the chance for real conversation. Would we agree? On some things, I'm sure, but it would be fun to try to convince you about things we don't agree on.
Fiance? Yep. I have somehow managed to obscure my Medusa mask and Mommie Dearest persona for long enough to rope in the best man I have ever met...well...the second best, anyway. We want to have the wedding in the fall, despite the symbolism the season usually carries with it literarily. For us, it is not about things dying; rather, it is about the cooling of unbearable temperatures, and the unmistakable scent and sound of dried leaves as they crush is something Ohio has that California cannot replace. I so hope that the reception is as much fun in reality as it has been in my imagination for the past 30-some years. Is it weird that I have no idea what the dress will look like, but I know what song the first dance will be? What do I do for the father/daughter dance? I am reminded, yet again, that I was not ready to lose you. I'm still not ready.
Time for some chocolate cake. Seventy-two years. Today. Happy birthday, Dad.
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