Wednesday, August 31, 2005

A month of memories

Another summer gone, another school year begins. I'm 15 years removed from any academic pursuits of my own, but this stretch of the calendar still resurrects memories of school supplies, new corduroys, class schedules, locker combinations and brown bag lunches.

August has other memories for me too -- my sister has her birthday on the 25th, and last week we got to spend it with her during her Alameda visit with her husband and my 20-month-old neice. August was when me and my pals would squeeze in one last trip to Action Park in Vernon Valley, NJ -- home of the alpine slide and wicked concrete burns on your elbows.

On the sad side, August was when my favorite grandfather, Al Chenevert -- a larger than life war hero, boozer and story teller -- passed away in 1988, and when he was buried at Arlington National Cemetery (as I was on my way down to Chapel Hill to start my sophomore year of college). And August is when Denise, my stepmother of nearly 15 years, died...10 years ago, Aug. 17, 1995. This was the first year in the last decade that I didn't somehow mark the day, even if only during a quiet moment of reflection. This year, Aug. 17 slipped by, mixed in with the other pre-visitor days filled with cleaning and planning and whatever. Kathy and I noted the anniversary when she was here, and I think we both were surprised we missed it.

Denise's death blew up my Dad's family, in many ways. She was the emotional glue that kept my father, a notorious shitty communicator, linked to his siblings, his father and, in some ways, his kids. And she left so suddenly -- taken down by ovarian cancer with mere days notice. For me, it was hours notice -- my father called me at work and said (in one big rush): Denise has cancer; she had surgery today; it did not go well; she's in intensive care and may not survive. I left work in a haze, despite being on deadline, and a follow-up phone call a couple of hours later confirmed the worst: at age 50, Denise Dunn Taggart died, on a Thursday night, just three days after being diagnosed with cancer.

I have carried wounds for a long time about how both my Dad and Denise handled that final summer...she was so clearly ill, very ill, and yet she didn't go to the doctor for months. Denial? Fear? Tacit acceptance of her fate that she, somehow, subconciously knew? Got me. But it was one big goddamn mess, between the negligent handling of the situation before her death, the fucking horrible communication the week of her death (hey Dad -- how about a phone call letting us know she has cancer in the first place?) and the sickly aftermath (Dad enjoying the "limelight" a bit too much as the grieving husband).

Gee, still pissed, aren't I? I have never talked to my Dad about the turmoil I still feel when I think about that August and the weeks that followed. (Dad -- if you ever google me and find this, let me lay it out.) How I felt a great responsibility and honor to be by his side at first -- helping pick out the casket, being the one to go in and place personal items next to her embalmed body to spare him the anguish of seeing her, traveling to Indiana with him and the casket for the funeral, speaking at the memorial service. God, I sound like I'm bragging. The point is that I did all this for my Dad...and I know feel like a fucking fraud -- for what I said at the service, for admiring the stories of their "happiness" (gee, I thought, I must have missed that during our visits, which almost always involved fighting and slamming doors and loads of negative emotional baggage), for how he grieved, like he was on stage...acting like a grieving widower instead of feeling like one.

So many complicated emotions, so little desire to lay them out for scrutiny (well, any more than I already have).

Denise, your memory is not dead -- thank you for the many wonderful experiences you brought to our family, and for being a good friend to my sister and me when we needed a nonparental, safe place to turn.

Fortunately, life keeps dealing you opportunities to create new memories...ones that may take the place of, or at least, balance out the crappy ones. So August will also now mean the first time my sister and I got together with all of our kids and watched the cousins bond and form friendships, while the grownups kept the peace, savored Corona Light, played Yahtzee (naturally!) and all got to know each other a little better.

Tags -- you are a wonderful sister who deserves a post of your own, describing your many contributions to my life. But most simply, thanks for keeping me laughing, and for sticking up for me all those years. On the road of life, there we are together -- you carrying a stuffed chimp in diapers, me toting a black seal with an orange fish buttoned to its nose. And Barry Manilow singing in the background.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Ella Rose Steps Out

Dear Ella,

How proud of you I am today, as you -- my little girl -- took a big step out into world and started kindergarten. I'm sorry I was not there to watch and cheer you on...I hope you know how much I wanted to be, but sometimes your mom and dad don't do things together like other moms and dads, as you know. But even if I wasn't there to wave goodbye to you and to marvel at the passing of another milestone in your life...I could just imagine you, marching into the classroom, your new backpack over your shoulders, your blond hair back in a braid, your blue eyes twinkling. I was thinking of you, and I couldn't wait to hear all about it.

I knew you would do great! Yes, sometimes you are shy, and sometimes anxious, and you are so sensitive at times, like when you worry about what's going to happen to people or whales or baby penguins in the movies. You are also smart, in tune with the needs of others, curious (like George!), quick to laugh, helpful and almost always good with your manners.

You expressed some nervousness about leaving your old school behind after three years, and leaving behind your close friends and your teachers who adored you so. That's OK -- that's understandable. Yet mixed with the nervousness was excitement about the new place and the new classmates and the unknown...and I'm so proud of you for how you handled this change and the many others that have come your way.

One of my favorite sounds is your pure laughter, and there's nothing quite like the feeling of your arms around my neck and your hand nestled in mine. Today, kindergarten...wow! Wasn't it just yesterday I was dozing with you on my chest, a puddle of baby drool spreading on my shirt? And before I know it, tomorrow will be another sign of you growing up. But you will always be my little girl...my Buttercup...my Kiddo. I'm not with you every day...and that kills me more than I can ever tell you...but I'm here for you always, and I love you.

Enjoy kindergarten! Life may never be so simple again. Learn all you can, have fun, make friends, and then tell me all about it.

Love,
Daddy
Ella at 2 and a half























Ella at 5 and a half, just before starting kindergarten

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Strung out on electric blankets

Another blur of post-less nights in the past week or so, as we spent each evening cleaning the house in anticipation of guests arriving. My sister, her husband and niece Cece came in yesterday for a week-long visit, and I'd say we're all still adjusting to the high levels of childlike energy coursing through the house. We've got Ella at five and a half, Cece at 20 months and Lindsay at 6 months...and four adults gamely trying to keep a grip on the situation.

It's been fun so far -- I think the adults are having a harder time than the kids! Well, more on that later this week, as things develop.

To the title of this post: I recently parted ways with two textile links to my past, and this is their story.


These are photos of my baseball blanket, which covered my bed for most of my youth. It was not particularly soft, and the red satiny piece at the end was fraying and torn, but I sure did love that thing. To prevent me from falling out, I would get tucked so tight into my bed under it that I could barely turn over. I don't know why I held on to it for so long -- at some point, my mom passed it over or I rescued it, and it's moved multiple times in a plastic bin, perhaps awaiting a nostalgic restoration? Alas, it's time had come, and now some non-profit that does curbside pick-ups of family detritus has it. Farewell, baseball blanket. And I think that guy was safe in that picture, even though the ump says out. I guess it was a force play...but how interesting is that for an illustration? (I never questioned the ump's call as a child.)

Also a casualty of our recent organizing/cleaning, nostalgia-be-damned binge was this lovely brown comforter, which I made by hand in 7th or 8th grade home ec class. More than 20 years old, and I don't remember actually using it as a blanket, except at my post-divorce furnished bachelor shithole apartment in Portland. And after 20 years, I discovered I'd left a pin in the batting (spelling?)...I suppose not surprising for a 12-year-old seamster (masc. of seamstress?). Interesting choice of fabrics -- purchased with my mother at a local fabric store. I got a bit more adventurous during a later home ec class (senior year of high school), when I and my friends made "jams" -- those colorful print shorts that were all the rage at the time. What is it about the smell in fabric stores, by the way? Is it the bolts of cloth that just naturally have that scent? I can almost conjure it up now. Whew.

If I see a homeless guy down the street in Oakland wearing one of these blankets, I wonder how that will feel? Better him than sitting useless in my garage, I guess.

Not even 9:30, and I'm off to bed. Big week ahead.


Monday, August 15, 2005

Superhighway

At the risk of coming across as one who just tumbled off the proverbial turnip truck, I have something to share along the lines of "gosh, ain't it incredible the information at our fingertips today!"

I was talking to my Mom yesterday and marveling at the fact that Ella -- my daughter -- is about to start kindergarten. She said, "You probably remember kindergarten." I have vague recollections, but what struck me was remembering how I used to walk or ride my bike to elementary school at the age of 6 or 7. In my memory, it's a long ways...my Mom swore it was only half a mile or so.

How far was it, actually, I wondered? Voila -- http://www.sueandpaul.com/gmapPedometer/, a very cool tool for measuring walking distance. Some guy hacked the google maps feature and now I know that it was about three-quarters of a mile from my childhood home on Dean Road in Wayland, Mass., to Loker Elementary School.

(As big a change as the info we can all tap into is how society has changed -- I would never let my child, at 6 years old, walk that far to elementary school or anywhere pretty much. You just can't be that trusting anymore. I suppose child abductions and stuff like that happened back in 1975-76 too [I have cloudy memories of my sister and I encountering an ill-intentioned person -- man? boy? -- behind our school, but the specifics slip through my mental fingertips...am I imagining it?], but you just weren't as aware of it as a parent. Was life simpler/nicer, or were we more trusting, or both?)

Techno nerd part two: we finished watching "The Aviator" this past weekend (finally!), and it sparked my curiousity in Howard Hughes. I only knew bits and pieces...and voila: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Hughes. This info source blows the doors off the World Book, although I fondly recall many hours spent with that "reference book." One summer at my Dad's, with many long hours during the day when his wife was engrossed in soap operas (she carried a small TV in the car in 1977 so she didn't miss anything while out doing errands) and I don't know where he was, I would copy sports lists out of the encyclopedia: Heisman winners, World Series champs, Super Bowl victors, etc.

My other favorite pasttime during those visits (beyond idolizing my older step-brother John, who coincidentally attended the same private school that Howard Hughes briefly went to) was watching my Dad and his wife play cribbage at the kitchen bar/counter. Cocktails were consumed, cards were played, voices were raised. I had no idea what was going on either in the game or between those two...in retrospect, it was an incredibly destructive, antagonistic relationship that cost my dad a few years of his life and more than few dollars. And I have equal parts good -- the trips, the St. Pete estate wedding, etc. -- and bad -- the drunken driving, the drunken everything -- memories.

Whew. To lighten the mood a bit, here's a cute picture!

This is Ella after her appearance in "The Burning Fields" opera as part of her 2-week performing arts camp. She was awesome as a cherry tree, I can assure you. Watch out, Broadway -- you ain't heard a performance of the classic "Firewood song" until you've heard my girl sing it.

Speaking of that show, I attended (and gave Ella those flowers), and also attending were six members of my ex-wife's family (boyfriend, parents, brother, sister-in-law, nephew). It was my first encounter since the divorce with most of them...and I was completely invisible to them. No eye contact, no acknowledgement, even as we stood 5 feet away from each other. The alternative could have been open hostility, shouting, fisticuffs...an episode of Jerry Springer right there at Oakland's First Presbyterian. So ignorance -- while feeling weird -- is fine.

Listening to: "Bill & Dave's Excellent Mix" -- a CD compilation we made for Gene before our Houston visit. It's full of great music and memories -- and worth another post all its own.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

First and first again

I've been laying low for a week or so, awaiting the blogging muse. This is an easy habit to let go...I scrubbed the kitchen (including those grimy liner things under the stove burners) last night instead of blogging for goodness sake. I hope once I get back into a regular routine, both my readers will once again be bored silly by my senseless posts.

What to write about today would be...recent firsts for Lindsay, yeah that's it! I'll get back in the groove by going diary on you.

First number one: solid food! If you can count rice cereal and other such mush as solid. But anyway, Lindsay started on solids last week, after I got back from Houston. There is no way to describe in words what a baby's face looks like as she tastes something of a totally foreign texture for the first time, so without further ado:

That doesn't quite do it justice...but you get the idea, I think? Lindsay has taken to food well, particularly the implement.

It's another sign of how quickly she is changing and turning into a little person instead of a little needy blob. I know from Ella what's ahead and how much more entertaining and enchanting Lindsay will become, but what a fantastic age now! (Note: just about all parents will say "what a great age" about their kid at any time.) Developing and learning and changing in leaps each week, plus I get the incredible giddy/giggly reaction when I come home from work.

Lindsay is sleeping great too; we've had a few nights this week where she was down from 7:30 p.m. to after 6 a.m. the next morning, with no food required in the interim. Now that's what I call sleeping through the night! And a rested baby means a happy baby, which looks like:


Such a joyous creature! I must say, she lights up the room/house/ferry/grocery store/car/sidewalk with her grin, and I'll do just about anything to get a laugh. If I find a ticklish zone to nuzzle on her cheek that produces a giggle, I'll go back to that well again and again to the point of tiring us both out. Can't help it -- baby giggles are like meth for parents: addicting, making you act crazy...except it doesn't rot your teeth or drain your bank account.

Maybe I'll get back to more topical stuff in a couple of days. I've been thinking about writing about Israel and my trip to Jerusalem and the Dead Sea in 1999, with all the Israeli/Gaza stuff in the news. Or documenting the often-overlooked career of Dwight Evans, #24, Red Sox outfielder and occasional All Star who put up some good numbers and played an outstanding right field. The bloated statistics of the steroid era dwarfed his career batting stats, but it's guys like him who should be revisited. I was always Dwight Evans when I and my friends played home run derby or wiffle ball. Brett was Kevin McReynolds, Ted was Pedro Guerrero and Rich was Don Mattingly (or Rickey Henderson?). What a foursome we were, circa 1983 to 1987 and even a bit beyond that. Where are you now, Richard George, aka Science?

See, I can digress and write about something other than mushed bananas and sleep schedules!

And now I leave you with photos of all my ladies:


Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Texas state bird

I made a joke while I was down in Houston that the Texas state bird was "The Bird" -- meaning the official "fuck you" gesture of a raised middle finger. Get it? Flip the bird...state bird...yeah, only moderately amusing, but in the midst of my sorrowful weekend trip, it passed for hilarious. And Texas is probably a place where this would be appropriate, right?

I have not blogged since I got back because, honestly, I have no idea how to express what I experienced down there, and I'm reluctant to even share the most minimal of details due to the private nature of what my best friend Gene and his wife Jimena are going through. At the same time, I've found it hard to write or think about much else in the past few days.

My weekend in Houston was one of the most profoundly sad, moving and surreal experiences of my life, and I feel like it will be with me forever. As I dance around this and express these feelings...well, I feel a bit like a fraud or a poseur or something...Gene and Jimena and their immediate family are the ones truly impacted. Who am I to moan and wail? I mean no disrespect to those involved -- I am only sharing the global impact on me, as someone who cares deeply about Gene and Jimena. And as a parent who knows what it is like to love a child.

My sincerest sympathies to the Larson/Mendoza family, and my admiration for their strength and courage during this unbelievably difficult time.

A couple of positive things I will take away from my Houston trip: appreciation for my friendships with Gene and Dave, who have stood by me through some bad times and who are just about the closest thing I have to brothers on the planet; and a reminder to count my blessings daily, because you just never know. I don't think I've ever been happier to see Nicola and Lindsay as I was on Monday morning at the Oakland airport.

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