Thursday, September 29, 2005
Mother Nature smiled
Today was one of those "wow, look where we live" kind of days, when the sun is shining, the fog stays away and warm breezes blow through the Golden Gate. It was a day for a family ferry ride to meet Daddy at his office and have lunch just paces from the bay, on a sandy beach with dogs chasing sticks and hefty men sporting snug, metallic gold swimsuits. Ah, San Francisco -- where a beautiful Indian summer day invariably includes a homeless dude asking how much we'd sell the baby for.A beach-side picnic of In-n-Out, a cool new hat purchased by Nicola, a happy smiling Lindsay, a stroll down the Embarcadero to our homebound ferry. What a quiet thrill to know you are where you are supposed to be in life and in love, and to share such a day with the people most important to you. A day to be savored now, and remembered later...gently pulled from memory and turned over and admired.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Donald Campbell Taggart Jr., 1918-2005
My grandfather died early this morning, 87 years old, down in St Petersburg, Fla. He went quickly and I hope peacefully...not to mention probably 10 to 15 years later than I would have bet.
I have some fond memories and some that are sad and disheartening, but that melange represents who "Soup" was -- a man full of humor, contradictions, addictions, an offputting lack of tact and a long history of struggling with unknown personal demons. Well, that last part is my interpretation; I would like to think there is some explanation for his lifelong failure to overcome alcoholism...a disease run rampant in my family (I think we nipped it in the bud in my generation) that brought a lot of misery to his life and his family's life.
So, this is not your standard eulogy, obviously. Campbell was a polarizing figure, and the sadness I feel is more for my father's loss than my own. My sister basically wrote Soup off after he said some loutish things to her. My uncle (my father's half brother) had a real love/hate relationship with his father -- for example, he encouraged Campbell to move to Florida, and then often wouldn't return the elderly man's phone calls (that probably bordered on harrassment). My dad would go to Florida on vacation...and not even tell his own father he was in the state.
I last saw Campbell in 2002, when I was in Florida on business. I hardly recognized him when I walked into the room at the VA hospital. The visit before, in 1998 (I think), he was laid up in a nursing home with a broken ankle and begged me to smuggle in some booze. I refused, clinging to some moral high ground about not feeding this feeble man's addiction. Looking back...what would it have hurt? How many pleasures did he have in life at that point? Betty, his wife (my father's stepmother) died in 1986; Campbell made a close woman friend in Florida, only to have her die suddenly. He was lonely and physically and mentally deteriorating...the alcohol's cumulative effect finally coming home to roost.
Well, I come to not to bury Campbell, but to praise him. He loved Frank Sinatra and used to tap along to "New York, New York" with a pair of drumsticks. His beagle Chan was fun to be around as a kid; you'd say the word "walk" and he'd tear off around the house, literally -- doing laps around the outside perimeter and baying loudly. He and Betty (who was born in Alameda, where I now live) were good to Kathy and I as kids. I can't remember too many more specifics, and that's a shame. I asked him a bunch of questions about the family in 1998, and I don't even recall the answers.
He was my last biological grandparent -- my last close blood link to that generation of Taggart and Forbes, McLean and Cueman. Rest in peace, Campbell.
(P.S. My apologies for repeating some of the same stuff I wrote on 9/18. I knew it felt familiar, but sometimes you can't remember why it feels familiar.)
I have some fond memories and some that are sad and disheartening, but that melange represents who "Soup" was -- a man full of humor, contradictions, addictions, an offputting lack of tact and a long history of struggling with unknown personal demons. Well, that last part is my interpretation; I would like to think there is some explanation for his lifelong failure to overcome alcoholism...a disease run rampant in my family (I think we nipped it in the bud in my generation) that brought a lot of misery to his life and his family's life.
So, this is not your standard eulogy, obviously. Campbell was a polarizing figure, and the sadness I feel is more for my father's loss than my own. My sister basically wrote Soup off after he said some loutish things to her. My uncle (my father's half brother) had a real love/hate relationship with his father -- for example, he encouraged Campbell to move to Florida, and then often wouldn't return the elderly man's phone calls (that probably bordered on harrassment). My dad would go to Florida on vacation...and not even tell his own father he was in the state.
I last saw Campbell in 2002, when I was in Florida on business. I hardly recognized him when I walked into the room at the VA hospital. The visit before, in 1998 (I think), he was laid up in a nursing home with a broken ankle and begged me to smuggle in some booze. I refused, clinging to some moral high ground about not feeding this feeble man's addiction. Looking back...what would it have hurt? How many pleasures did he have in life at that point? Betty, his wife (my father's stepmother) died in 1986; Campbell made a close woman friend in Florida, only to have her die suddenly. He was lonely and physically and mentally deteriorating...the alcohol's cumulative effect finally coming home to roost.
Well, I come to not to bury Campbell, but to praise him. He loved Frank Sinatra and used to tap along to "New York, New York" with a pair of drumsticks. His beagle Chan was fun to be around as a kid; you'd say the word "walk" and he'd tear off around the house, literally -- doing laps around the outside perimeter and baying loudly. He and Betty (who was born in Alameda, where I now live) were good to Kathy and I as kids. I can't remember too many more specifics, and that's a shame. I asked him a bunch of questions about the family in 1998, and I don't even recall the answers.
He was my last biological grandparent -- my last close blood link to that generation of Taggart and Forbes, McLean and Cueman. Rest in peace, Campbell.
(P.S. My apologies for repeating some of the same stuff I wrote on 9/18. I knew it felt familiar, but sometimes you can't remember why it feels familiar.)
Monday, September 26, 2005
Catching up
There's a lot I want to write about; I don't think I'll get to all of it today, so here is one observation and some updates.
- I fully support breastfeeding as a natural, perfectly normal way for babies to be nourished during the first months of their lives. So spare me the angry LaLeche feedback if you don't like what I have to say -- I'm on your side! But come on -- would a little discretion hurt anybody? We were at the Oakland Zoo yesterday, and there, standing in front of the baboon enclosure, was a woman breastfeeding her...2-year-old? I'm not sure -- I only saw her from the back, but she was just standing there, at the rail next to other people, holding this pretty big kid sideways on her breast. To me, that was inappropriate...and then she switched sides for the kid and walked off, down the sidewalk toward the children's zoo area, STILL BREASTFEEDING. Please, ma'am, find a bench, take a seat and nurse your child in peace. Must you continue touring the zoo while engaging in this, some would say, intimate act? Hey, I don't mind seeing a breast or two, and breastfeeding is a beautiful, loving act. But there's no need for it to be an overtly public act, is there?
- Lindsay update: she was off the pacifier for, oh, two days or so, until she was crazy overtired on Sunday and needed just that wee bit of help to get over the hump and into nappyland. We don't feel too hung up about it; we'll use it when we need it, and gradually wean off it if we can. You can remind me of this blase attitude in about two years if you see pictures posted here of Lindsay still sucking on a pacifier. Walking and sucking? See the previous bullet -- I got a problem with that.
- Ella update: she bounced back well from her Thursday night funk. I kept her in good spirits on Friday morning, and we all dropped her at kindergarten. It was my first "goodbye" at the door, and -- gulp! -- I felt a pang in my heart as I watched my little girl march into Miss Rochester's glass, her backpack swinging to and fro. I can only imagine how emotional the first day was. Ella continued in a great mood all weekend -- very loving to Lindsay, happy, helpful, etc. I am so proud of her for first, expressing her difficult emotions, and second for, overall, dealing so well with so many changes -- new school, new before and aftercare programs, religious school on Tuesdays, now a dance class, etc. It's a lot, and she's really hanging in there.
- Garage sale proceeds: more than $100, which we're sending off to various charities. I'll detail the albums I let go at some point. I was amazed at what people bought...and didn't buy.
- My grandfather is in hospice care and it's just a matter of days now until the end. Not that I'd know any of this if I relied on my father for information. Once again, disappointed by not surprised.
I'll close with photos from the weekend. Oh yeah -- did I mention Lindsay is in pre-crawl mode?!? Just fasicinating watching her get used to using her body in different ways. Last Monday, we propped her on her hands and knees; today, Nicola reports finding Lindsay up on all fours on her own. Crap -- time to babyproof!
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Growing pains
"I just don't feel like I'm getting enough time with you."
With those teary words, Ella broke my heart tonight...and took another big step toward growing up.
It was an emotional evening at times, as Ella struggled with being sad and tried to express to us what she was feeling. To her credit -- she's only 5! -- she thoughtfully expressed herself several times, and the gist...not surprisingly...is that she's struggling with sharing our attention with her little sister. It is a totally normal reaction, and one that, as Phoenix said later on the phone, is good, because the reaction shows that Ella is processing and sharing the feelings, instead of hiding them away. (Yeah, I tried that for a few years after my parents' divorce, and all it got me was trouble.)
Even though I can appreciate the positive aspects of tonight's scenario, it kills me to see Ella sad, and her forthright statement of need...well, that was a weepy dagger to the heart. It dredges up my own guilt over the divorce, which resulted in me being with Ella less than one-quarter of each month. And I don't want resentment to build toward Lindsay, but the connection is unmistakable. Shortly after we got home, Ella, Lindsay and I were playing a blanket on the living room floor. I kissed Lindsay in her ribs, tickling her and eliciting a squeal of delight. Ella's demeanor flipped in an instant, and her sadness began almost right then.
Well, nobody ever said parenting would be easy, right? Kudos to Ella for expressing herself so well -- it only took me until, oh, about 25 until I could consistently be that emotionally honest with my parents. And it's still not consistent! Kudos as well to Nicola for her steadfast emotional support and leadership (I do think that's the right term -- she's the emotional leader of this family).
Photo at left: Ella and Phoenix, aka Grandma Bobo
Random note: Safe passage through Hurricane Rita to my good friend Gene and his family down in Houston. They bailed on an evacuation attempt after making it about four miles from their house in several hours of fighting traffic. They should be OK -- they are 90 miles inland, they've got some friends with them, extra water, beer, an extra propane tank for the grill and lots of cheap seafood (the local grocery store was unloading). Still, I hope that the almighty intelligent design out there has an eye out for them -- they've been through enough this year already.
With those teary words, Ella broke my heart tonight...and took another big step toward growing up.
It was an emotional evening at times, as Ella struggled with being sad and tried to express to us what she was feeling. To her credit -- she's only 5! -- she thoughtfully expressed herself several times, and the gist...not surprisingly...is that she's struggling with sharing our attention with her little sister. It is a totally normal reaction, and one that, as Phoenix said later on the phone, is good, because the reaction shows that Ella is processing and sharing the feelings, instead of hiding them away. (Yeah, I tried that for a few years after my parents' divorce, and all it got me was trouble.)
Even though I can appreciate the positive aspects of tonight's scenario, it kills me to see Ella sad, and her forthright statement of need...well, that was a weepy dagger to the heart. It dredges up my own guilt over the divorce, which resulted in me being with Ella less than one-quarter of each month. And I don't want resentment to build toward Lindsay, but the connection is unmistakable. Shortly after we got home, Ella, Lindsay and I were playing a blanket on the living room floor. I kissed Lindsay in her ribs, tickling her and eliciting a squeal of delight. Ella's demeanor flipped in an instant, and her sadness began almost right then.
Well, nobody ever said parenting would be easy, right? Kudos to Ella for expressing herself so well -- it only took me until, oh, about 25 until I could consistently be that emotionally honest with my parents. And it's still not consistent! Kudos as well to Nicola for her steadfast emotional support and leadership (I do think that's the right term -- she's the emotional leader of this family). Photo at left: Ella and Phoenix, aka Grandma Bobo
Random note: Safe passage through Hurricane Rita to my good friend Gene and his family down in Houston. They bailed on an evacuation attempt after making it about four miles from their house in several hours of fighting traffic. They should be OK -- they are 90 miles inland, they've got some friends with them, extra water, beer, an extra propane tank for the grill and lots of cheap seafood (the local grocery store was unloading). Still, I hope that the almighty intelligent design out there has an eye out for them -- they've been through enough this year already.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
DTNRT
The philosophy I've tried to follow, just lately, is Do The Next Right Thing. I'm admittedly late at arriving to the Buddhist way of approaching life, and I haven't gone any deeper than this tidbit of wisdom. I ran across it on one of the blogs I read, I think Ian's, and it struck me in such a way that I've not been able to get it out of my head for the past few weeks.
I'm not sure I can follow this philosophical order all the time, but it seems like a good place to start.
It seems to me there are two ways to apply it: within the pure Buddhist construct of "do the next right thing, regardless of the past bullshit and baggage...in fact, ignore what's come before and don't worry about what comes next -- just do the next right thing" (a horribly rough attempt at synopsizing) -- OR the other way is a bit more selfish: "do the next right thing, within the context of everything that has led to this moment." Can you follow a Buddhist mantra selfishly? I don't know, but I think I'm trying.
The recent crap with my Dad (I promise, I'm almost done bitching for a day or two) is an example. I could call him and see how he's doing with my grandfather's illness...forgetting the mountain of evidence that tells me that no matter what I do to reach out to him or support him or build our relationship, he will be unable to hold up his end of it and I'll be disappointed. Or, I could take all that shit into consideration, and say to myself: "The next right thing to do for me is to just leave it alone and spare myself the disappointment, frustration and sadness that will inevitably come." Yeah, that feels right for now. Bygones still matter in this little dance I do with my father.
My friend Eric has come to a place where he's made a cleaner break with his dysfunctional, emotionally crippled father. I admire him for that and for how he's overcome parental influences that would have left lesser man sucking their thumb in a corner for a few decades. As you can tell by my recent posts, I'm still not completely disengaged from my father...I still want to have hope that he'll see the light.
Speaking of father influences and Buddhism, my father-in-law Tom was on a kick during their recent visit to attempt to view things as neither good nor bad -- they just are. A noble principle...but one that, again, comes out a bit twisted when I crank it through my brain and experiences and perspective.
Anyone else got a guiding philosophy you'd care to share?
DTNRT: share some happy family photos...these from our recent wine tasting/picnic excursion to Napa:
I'm not sure I can follow this philosophical order all the time, but it seems like a good place to start.
It seems to me there are two ways to apply it: within the pure Buddhist construct of "do the next right thing, regardless of the past bullshit and baggage...in fact, ignore what's come before and don't worry about what comes next -- just do the next right thing" (a horribly rough attempt at synopsizing) -- OR the other way is a bit more selfish: "do the next right thing, within the context of everything that has led to this moment." Can you follow a Buddhist mantra selfishly? I don't know, but I think I'm trying.
The recent crap with my Dad (I promise, I'm almost done bitching for a day or two) is an example. I could call him and see how he's doing with my grandfather's illness...forgetting the mountain of evidence that tells me that no matter what I do to reach out to him or support him or build our relationship, he will be unable to hold up his end of it and I'll be disappointed. Or, I could take all that shit into consideration, and say to myself: "The next right thing to do for me is to just leave it alone and spare myself the disappointment, frustration and sadness that will inevitably come." Yeah, that feels right for now. Bygones still matter in this little dance I do with my father.
My friend Eric has come to a place where he's made a cleaner break with his dysfunctional, emotionally crippled father. I admire him for that and for how he's overcome parental influences that would have left lesser man sucking their thumb in a corner for a few decades. As you can tell by my recent posts, I'm still not completely disengaged from my father...I still want to have hope that he'll see the light.
Speaking of father influences and Buddhism, my father-in-law Tom was on a kick during their recent visit to attempt to view things as neither good nor bad -- they just are. A noble principle...but one that, again, comes out a bit twisted when I crank it through my brain and experiences and perspective.
Anyone else got a guiding philosophy you'd care to share?
DTNRT: share some happy family photos...these from our recent wine tasting/picnic excursion to Napa:
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Random #2 (I think)
A big controversy has erupted at The Daily Tar Heel, the nation's finest college newspaper (in my unbiased opinion). Details are here and here...I won't bore you with the rehashing. But I will back the young collegians putting their heart and souls and time (lots of time!) into the DTH (even the sloppy writing conservatives). I was once one of them, and I consider my time spent at the paper a highlight of my college years. I rose from a lowly business reporter documenting the arrival of a new "surf/beachwear" shop to managing editor and eventually a candidate for editor. Back then, the position of editor was a campuswide elected position, and I and my running mate Mary Jo Dunnington lost against a less-qualified but better-campaigning team. It was a crushing blow at the time that temporarily derailed my journalism plans, but in the long run, I guess I'd say it worked out. I mean, I believe that things happen for a reason, and as a result of me not being the editor of the DTH, I was able to take a job with UPI as a sportswriter, which lead to all sorts of cool stuff at the tender age of 21.
So anyway, my time at the DTH taught me more about being a journalist than any J-school class; journalism and writing are crafts that need to be practiced, and that's what six to eight hours a day at the DTH offices gave me: lots of practice! Not to mention several of my closest friends to this day: Louis Bissette and Dave Glenn. If any budding journalists read this: go work at your campus paper! Best training you can get!
Other random thoughts: condolences to my mom's cousin Clariss, whose husband Jack passed away on Saturday. Clariss and Jack and their daughters -- my second cousins, I think I've figured out -- are the closest thing we had to extended family in N.J. as I was growing up. Jack was a wonderful family man, and always was interesting to talk to. My Mom knew Jack since she was seven, when her family and the Rocks attended the same church in Paterson, N.J. (where my great-grandfather was mayor).
Not much news on my grandfather. I did talk to my Aunt Lynne last night for the first time in years...probably the first time since she ripped me a new one after my ex-wife and I separated. She basically called me a bad father and a bad person...and then less than two years later, she separated from her husband of 20+ years, with two kids in high school. Hmm. Methinks she transferred some of her issues on to me. But we've made the peace, and she's apologized for saying those horrible things to me (her words). She's heading to Florida this weekend to see Campbell and support my Uncle Tom, who is on the frontlines of caring for my grandfather. I wish my Dad would get over his shit and get down there too.
Perhaps something more observational and less personal next time?
So anyway, my time at the DTH taught me more about being a journalist than any J-school class; journalism and writing are crafts that need to be practiced, and that's what six to eight hours a day at the DTH offices gave me: lots of practice! Not to mention several of my closest friends to this day: Louis Bissette and Dave Glenn. If any budding journalists read this: go work at your campus paper! Best training you can get!
Other random thoughts: condolences to my mom's cousin Clariss, whose husband Jack passed away on Saturday. Clariss and Jack and their daughters -- my second cousins, I think I've figured out -- are the closest thing we had to extended family in N.J. as I was growing up. Jack was a wonderful family man, and always was interesting to talk to. My Mom knew Jack since she was seven, when her family and the Rocks attended the same church in Paterson, N.J. (where my great-grandfather was mayor).
Not much news on my grandfather. I did talk to my Aunt Lynne last night for the first time in years...probably the first time since she ripped me a new one after my ex-wife and I separated. She basically called me a bad father and a bad person...and then less than two years later, she separated from her husband of 20+ years, with two kids in high school. Hmm. Methinks she transferred some of her issues on to me. But we've made the peace, and she's apologized for saying those horrible things to me (her words). She's heading to Florida this weekend to see Campbell and support my Uncle Tom, who is on the frontlines of caring for my grandfather. I wish my Dad would get over his shit and get down there too.
Perhaps something more observational and less personal next time?
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Generations of paternal blundering
In my last post, I verbally stomped my foot at my father and his juvenile communications skills. To follow up: the very day I posted -- Thursday -- he called, but it was 11 p.m. his time, which means he was up alone and the ice was tinkling in the glass, if you get my drift. No? He was borderline innebriated -- too much so to tackle the conversation I wanted to have. Once again: disappointing, but not surprising.
So we touch on the usual banalities and go over the usual excuses for why he hasn't called (he still claims to be flummoxed by the time change...which works in his favor, by the way, and I've only lived in the Pacific time zone for almost 10 years, so no wonder he's confused...). And toward the end, he says, "Well, I wanted to tell you that your grandfather is in the hospital and he may not make it very long." I would have thought this might have been a bit higher on the conversational list, say, before telling me how the weather's been. But no.
My grandfather has lived far longer than anyone anticipated, and far longer than an unrepentant alcoholic has a right to live, to be frank. I visited him once in a nursing home, about seven years ago, and he tried to get me to sneak a pint of booze into him. The last time I saw him was 2002, and he was at a VA hospital then and barely recognizable to me. I guess what I'm saying is I have very little emotion about the apparent immiment passing of my last blood-related grandparent, and that's sad. More sad: my own father's mixed emotions and bizarre relationship with his father. He's not planning to go down to Florida to see his father, who is likely on his deathbed, and one reason had something to do with resentment his half-brother and half-sister have or something. I asked how he was feeling, and he said "ambivalent." My sister said "Dad, I'm so sad for you," and my father said, "Have you gotten any rain lately?" The man is so emotionally locked down...hmm, and I say I have no emotion around my grandfather, and I complain (especially here) about my father quite a bit, and I could use the word "ambivalent" in some sense too. Well, the Taggart Men legacy is purring right along, isn't it?
Note to the universe: tell my Dad ('cause he ain't reading this, I hope) to go to Florida, to make peace with his father and his siblings and his past, and tell him to get the fuck over Father's Day, while you're at it. OK? Thanks, that would be great.
And now, a cute picture to lighten the mood:
So we touch on the usual banalities and go over the usual excuses for why he hasn't called (he still claims to be flummoxed by the time change...which works in his favor, by the way, and I've only lived in the Pacific time zone for almost 10 years, so no wonder he's confused...). And toward the end, he says, "Well, I wanted to tell you that your grandfather is in the hospital and he may not make it very long." I would have thought this might have been a bit higher on the conversational list, say, before telling me how the weather's been. But no.
My grandfather has lived far longer than anyone anticipated, and far longer than an unrepentant alcoholic has a right to live, to be frank. I visited him once in a nursing home, about seven years ago, and he tried to get me to sneak a pint of booze into him. The last time I saw him was 2002, and he was at a VA hospital then and barely recognizable to me. I guess what I'm saying is I have very little emotion about the apparent immiment passing of my last blood-related grandparent, and that's sad. More sad: my own father's mixed emotions and bizarre relationship with his father. He's not planning to go down to Florida to see his father, who is likely on his deathbed, and one reason had something to do with resentment his half-brother and half-sister have or something. I asked how he was feeling, and he said "ambivalent." My sister said "Dad, I'm so sad for you," and my father said, "Have you gotten any rain lately?" The man is so emotionally locked down...hmm, and I say I have no emotion around my grandfather, and I complain (especially here) about my father quite a bit, and I could use the word "ambivalent" in some sense too. Well, the Taggart Men legacy is purring right along, isn't it?
Note to the universe: tell my Dad ('cause he ain't reading this, I hope) to go to Florida, to make peace with his father and his siblings and his past, and tell him to get the fuck over Father's Day, while you're at it. OK? Thanks, that would be great.
And now, a cute picture to lighten the mood:
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Dinner table, 2030
Nicola's parents Tom and Phoenix were in town over the weekend, and we had our usual series of engaging, thought-provoking discussions around the dinner table or in the living room. There are no conversational stones left unturned in this family -- politics, religion, parenting, sex, money, careers, friendship, divorce, in-laws and ex-in-laws, etc. It all gets covered. At one point, Tom looks at me at a time when sensitive father/mother/daughter/divorce topics were on the table, and says, "Can you imagine having this conversation with Ella sitting next to you?" And I think about it for a moment, and reply, "I can see how that would be awkward."
My real response is this: "YES PLEASE!" While no relationship, familial or otherwise, is perfect, the one shared between Nicola and her parents (all four) is something to admire for its honesty, respect, trust and openness. I admire her and them for it, and I aspire to it in some way as well. I had a great conversation with my Mom the other day -- the kind that felt like we were both mother and son AND friends. I don't want to replace one with the other, because I think that the parental aspect of the relationship is still important, yet so is the ability to transcend that and relate to each other as independent grown-ups.
Which is where my father comes in. I've ranted about him extensively here and lord knows he deserves it, but I think he's set a new low recently, and my recent weekend with the Ries family cemented it. The short version is that 1) he has talked to me maybe three times since his visit in late May; 2) I suspected he was mad because I didn't recognize Father's Day with sufficient munificence; 3) he confirmed as much...by telling my sister in her birthday card and on the phone that he was rewarding her with a nice present BECAUSE she is so good at giving Father's Day gifts (and presents to his two young sons). And he also mentions to her that, unlike her, I never give him Father's Day gifts.
What a fucking child. He must have known Kathy would tell me what he said, which she did. I immediately got both furious at how petty he is, and sad at how immature he is. With Nicola's help, I decided to take a constructive approach: instead of ripping off an angry, flammable e-mail, I called him with the intention of saying something to the effect of "I heard you are mad/upset with me. I'm sorry that my Father's Day efforts hurt your feelings. In the future, it would be great if heard this directly from you, so we can work on communicating our real feelings, and I can know what's bothering you. This is how I'd like things to go between us."
I made this call on Sunday, Sept. 3 -- leaving a short vague message...but assuming he knows that I know etc. It's now 12 days later, and he has yet to call back. Goddamn coward. How am I supposed to try to be constructive and improve our communications to an adult level when he's acting like he's 7?
Having a child makes you a father or a mother...but it does not make you a parent. Think about that, Dad.
So, here's my request for the dinner table, 2030, where Ella and Lindsay and whatever other family members sit: an honest, open conversation where no topics are too sensitive, where no one's feelings are trampled or ignored, where we all act like adults who care about each other, and where we feel safe in expressing ourselves because we know there is mutual respect and love. My pledge to Ella and Lindsay: I will do my damnedest to be a parent and a friend to you and to communicate with dignity and respect for myself and you, and I will not hold secret grudges, and I will not use your siblings to send messages about my secret grudges, and I will not shy away from always learning how to be a supportive and loving part of your lives.
And in the meantime...I'll keep trying to "do the next right thing" when it comes to my father, as fruitless as that seems. And I'll keep working on being real in my present relationships, because that's a gift to me and to the other parties in those relationships.
Next post, I'll try to keep it light!
My real response is this: "YES PLEASE!" While no relationship, familial or otherwise, is perfect, the one shared between Nicola and her parents (all four) is something to admire for its honesty, respect, trust and openness. I admire her and them for it, and I aspire to it in some way as well. I had a great conversation with my Mom the other day -- the kind that felt like we were both mother and son AND friends. I don't want to replace one with the other, because I think that the parental aspect of the relationship is still important, yet so is the ability to transcend that and relate to each other as independent grown-ups.
Which is where my father comes in. I've ranted about him extensively here and lord knows he deserves it, but I think he's set a new low recently, and my recent weekend with the Ries family cemented it. The short version is that 1) he has talked to me maybe three times since his visit in late May; 2) I suspected he was mad because I didn't recognize Father's Day with sufficient munificence; 3) he confirmed as much...by telling my sister in her birthday card and on the phone that he was rewarding her with a nice present BECAUSE she is so good at giving Father's Day gifts (and presents to his two young sons). And he also mentions to her that, unlike her, I never give him Father's Day gifts.
What a fucking child. He must have known Kathy would tell me what he said, which she did. I immediately got both furious at how petty he is, and sad at how immature he is. With Nicola's help, I decided to take a constructive approach: instead of ripping off an angry, flammable e-mail, I called him with the intention of saying something to the effect of "I heard you are mad/upset with me. I'm sorry that my Father's Day efforts hurt your feelings. In the future, it would be great if heard this directly from you, so we can work on communicating our real feelings, and I can know what's bothering you. This is how I'd like things to go between us."
I made this call on Sunday, Sept. 3 -- leaving a short vague message...but assuming he knows that I know etc. It's now 12 days later, and he has yet to call back. Goddamn coward. How am I supposed to try to be constructive and improve our communications to an adult level when he's acting like he's 7?
Having a child makes you a father or a mother...but it does not make you a parent. Think about that, Dad.
So, here's my request for the dinner table, 2030, where Ella and Lindsay and whatever other family members sit: an honest, open conversation where no topics are too sensitive, where no one's feelings are trampled or ignored, where we all act like adults who care about each other, and where we feel safe in expressing ourselves because we know there is mutual respect and love. My pledge to Ella and Lindsay: I will do my damnedest to be a parent and a friend to you and to communicate with dignity and respect for myself and you, and I will not hold secret grudges, and I will not use your siblings to send messages about my secret grudges, and I will not shy away from always learning how to be a supportive and loving part of your lives.
And in the meantime...I'll keep trying to "do the next right thing" when it comes to my father, as fruitless as that seems. And I'll keep working on being real in my present relationships, because that's a gift to me and to the other parties in those relationships.
Next post, I'll try to keep it light!
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Rampart, we've got the vitals
Lindsay met her nice new pediatrician yesterday, and here's how she measured up:
- Weight: 14 lb, 12 oz (25th percentile)
- Height: 26 1/2 inches (75th percentile)
- Head: ?? (but it was 80th percentile)
This makes her the supermodel of babies: tall and skinny...but unfortunately, she's got the makings of a Taggart and our big fat pumpkin heads.
Lindsay did great with her shots and was given a clean bill of health overall. We'll know more about her ear next month, when she's scheduled for a hearing test.
Origin of the subject line: from one of my favorite TV shows of all time: Emergency! with Randolph Mantooth and Kevin Tighe. My sister and I loved that show and its semi-perilous adventures, plus all the folksy wisecracking with Chet, the portly fireman who couldn't cook. And that gritty Nurse Dixie, whose raspy voice belied a 2-pack-a-day habit for sure.
I haven't seen a rerun of this in a while, and it's probably a good thing. I don't think it would look too good now, much like Gilligan's Island, another one of our favorites. I will say that Gilligan and the castaways did teach me some excellent uses for coconuts and some rudimentary musical numbers, long before the Harlem Globetrotters appeared on their island.
Why did we think these and other shows were so great? Has TV gotten so much better AND I'm older, or just one of those?
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Comments on chaos
Let me be the last blogger to add my two cents to the New Orleans/Hurricane Katrina situation. I'll stay out of the politics, although Ian over at xtcian.com has some interesting thoughts that I think are on the money.
For me, the sadness is in the misery and destruction heaped upon some of the poorest people in the United States. I've seen the touristy/pretty side of New Orleans, and I've seen the gritty. On my first visit to New Orleans, in 1988 or 1989, I was attending an Associated College Press convention as part of The Daily Tar Heel contingent. One of my closest friends from high school, Rich George, was enrolled at Tulane, so I took a bus over to meet him. The bus was known as the "Frerette Jet" and went through some of the city's worst neighborhoods; you couldn't believe that the St. Charles Tavern on the streetcar line and these battered city blocks were in the same city.
I accompanied Rich to an anti-apartheid protest, and I ended up storming a Board of Trustees meeting with the crowd. "Take Tulane Green Out of South Africa!" we chanted...and soon thereafter, Tulane got with the divestiture movement.
Rich was my guide to New Orleans on several occasions, showing me the cool spots, the off-the-beaten-path watering holes like the Saturn Bar, exposing me to the Rebirth Brass Band and the New Orleans Blues Department. I checked out Mardi Gras one year, staying with Rich and his three apartment mates in a one-bedroom place with no shower (tub only!) and a persistent gas leak in the kitchen. We attended parades decked out in thrift store costumes, me wearing zip-up ankle-high black leather boots, ala Captain Kirk, that I borrowed from Rich's friend Bengt the glassblower. He introduced me to beignets at Cafe Du Monde at about 4 a.m., and I still go back there every time I'm in New Orleans (last October, at about 4 a.m., on my way back to my hotel to catch my flight home).
Thanks to Rich, I saw New Orleans as more than the French Quarter and Jackson Square -- I saw it as a college town, as an artists' town, as a musicians' town, as a place where a one-time lawyer wannabe could recreate himself as a zine publisher known as Science. Hey Science, where are you know? I never did thank you for that Zane Grey book "Taggart". No contact between us in almost 10 years.
Like most, anything I've done to contribute to the recovery is inadequate and small. My hat's off to the true heroes out there, quitting their jobs to volunteer for the Red Cross or organizing relief efforts. Except for Arabian horse administrators who don't know their FEMA from a horse's ass. (OK, just a bit of politics)
For me, the sadness is in the misery and destruction heaped upon some of the poorest people in the United States. I've seen the touristy/pretty side of New Orleans, and I've seen the gritty. On my first visit to New Orleans, in 1988 or 1989, I was attending an Associated College Press convention as part of The Daily Tar Heel contingent. One of my closest friends from high school, Rich George, was enrolled at Tulane, so I took a bus over to meet him. The bus was known as the "Frerette Jet" and went through some of the city's worst neighborhoods; you couldn't believe that the St. Charles Tavern on the streetcar line and these battered city blocks were in the same city.
I accompanied Rich to an anti-apartheid protest, and I ended up storming a Board of Trustees meeting with the crowd. "Take Tulane Green Out of South Africa!" we chanted...and soon thereafter, Tulane got with the divestiture movement.
Rich was my guide to New Orleans on several occasions, showing me the cool spots, the off-the-beaten-path watering holes like the Saturn Bar, exposing me to the Rebirth Brass Band and the New Orleans Blues Department. I checked out Mardi Gras one year, staying with Rich and his three apartment mates in a one-bedroom place with no shower (tub only!) and a persistent gas leak in the kitchen. We attended parades decked out in thrift store costumes, me wearing zip-up ankle-high black leather boots, ala Captain Kirk, that I borrowed from Rich's friend Bengt the glassblower. He introduced me to beignets at Cafe Du Monde at about 4 a.m., and I still go back there every time I'm in New Orleans (last October, at about 4 a.m., on my way back to my hotel to catch my flight home).
Thanks to Rich, I saw New Orleans as more than the French Quarter and Jackson Square -- I saw it as a college town, as an artists' town, as a musicians' town, as a place where a one-time lawyer wannabe could recreate himself as a zine publisher known as Science. Hey Science, where are you know? I never did thank you for that Zane Grey book "Taggart". No contact between us in almost 10 years.
Like most, anything I've done to contribute to the recovery is inadequate and small. My hat's off to the true heroes out there, quitting their jobs to volunteer for the Red Cross or organizing relief efforts. Except for Arabian horse administrators who don't know their FEMA from a horse's ass. (OK, just a bit of politics)
