Building a house

"I know they say you can’t go home again
I just had to come back one last time."

 ... the house that built me ...

 My brother and I have our handprints in the cement on the back patio.
My mother marked our height/growth on the kitchen door sill. 
We had a huge banana tree in the backyard, and mom's clothesline was stretched across the lawn.

"I bet you didn’t know under that live oak

My favorite dog is buried in the yard..."

"If I could just come in I swear I’ll leave
Won’t take nothing but a memory
From the house that built me."

 (Last day at this house that built me)

I have those memories. 

Lyrics are from the song "The House that Built Me" written by Tom Douglas and Allen Shamblin. 

Miranda Lambert recorded it, but I heard it first performed by Mary Hoffmann. 

 The street  with the house that built me.

The house is still there, all 1,150 sq. feet of it. 

Zillow records that it was valued at $650,000 in 2005. 

The house that built me... in Southern California.

Typing into the night

My dad used to apologize to us kids that he wasn't the best father around. As a child, I mostly ignored his comments but would wonder what a 'best' father was like. Did he give his only daughter a tiara for her 5th birthday? Did he let her have as many puppies as she wanted? Did he make a rule that said she didn't HAVE to clean her room every week? Did he buy her a horse she could ride every day? Did he offer to pay her education through Yale or Harvard or Stanford?

When I reached adulthood, my dad would continue to repeat his mantra. "I am not the best Dad around." Suddenly I reached the age where I knew he didn't have to be the best dad around - he just had to be my dad. I knew Dad tried hard at everything he did. He was competitive that way. He was driven - not just in his work, but in his golf game, in his evening of game of basketball HORSE down in the driveway, in his way he cared for his family.

And then when Dad retired, he decided he needed to write. By then, he and my mom had moved to a summer home in the mountains. A couple weekends a month, I would drive up to their retreat and deliver their mail, the latest local news, and endless reams of typing paper for Dad's project. Every six weeks I included a new typewriter ribbon and more "White-out" for his mistakes.

And every day, Dad would type. He'd put his typewriter on the breakfast bar; he'd sit at the barstool for hours, pecking away at the keyboard. He'd chew his pipe. He'd drink endless mugs of coffee. He wouldn't talk - he'd type.

Mom and I used to wonder to each other "What can he be writing?". When we'd ask him, he wouldn't answer. He'd frown over his glasses, he'd clamp harder down on his pipe stem. And he type with a newer fury.

So Mom and I decided he was writing his memoirs. Pages and pages of his history. Each finished page was removed from the typewriter and put in a manila folder. Page after page filled the folder. Pages of words, of whiteout stripes, of coffee stains.  Pages we never had a chance to read.

Today, I think of Dad as I read Billy Collins' poem Royal Aristocrat

My old typewriter used to make so much noise
I had to put a cushion of newspaper
beneath it late at night
so as not to wake the whole house.
 
...one burst after another
as my wife turned in her sleep.
I was a single monkey
trying to type the opening lines of my Hamlet,
often doing nothing more
than ironing pieces of paper in the platen
then wrinkling them into balls
to flick into the wicker basket....

... Such deep silence on those nights —
just the sound of my typing
and a few stars singing a song their mother
sang when they were mere babies in the sky.

We never found Dad's memorior. I have no idea where he put it, if he finished it, what it said.
But he was still the best Dad in the world.

The secret is in hand motion

Time came for us to take our family Christmas photo. 

A nice sunny day, the dogs all in rare form (IE, willing to stay and sit TOGETHER NOW!).

And our handy new little remote camera trigger.

(Enbiggen the phototo catch the look on Toby's face. 

He is the top-most dog in this pile.)

The remote trigger worked pretty well!

No cords, no wires. 

No setting the camera on 'countdown' 

and then running to get in place.

Just put the camera on a tripod 

(or something stable like that),

set all the settings as you want them, 

find the setting for remote trigger, 

walk over to your spot,

sit, 

press the release,

and 

SMILE!

Oh yea - remember to hide your hand in the dog's fur.

Nothing worse than a bunch of photos with your hand 'out of pose' to the rest of you!

Is that what you really meant to say?

When we moved to Argentina, my mother was only beginning her adventures in life. She was in her mid 30s, but she found that 're-inventing' oneself has no age limit. People can re-invent themselves anytime they chose.

Mom's life had been fairly simple up to the move to Argentina. She married straight out of high school, had her first son soon after graduation from college, and moved to California before her youngest (me) was born. She had driven across old Route 66 multiple times, from Chicago to the Pacific Ocean and seen lots of the United States. She had moved from her own family and neighborhood to live near the family she had married into.


And when my parents were 34 years old, they decided to move overseas. First stop, Argentina.

Lifestyles in Argentina were incredibly different than those she had known in Ohio or California. Mom, Elise, decided the best way to know the country was to 'become' the country. To 'become' the country, one had to fit in, to live as the locals did.

One of the first things Elise found out was that wives need their husbands' permission to drive the family car. The permission slip was not only signed by the husband, but notarized by the local authority and it was carried in the auto at all times.

Elise didn't care for this at all. Permission to drive their car? No way. She would ride the bicycle or take the train, thank you. My one speed blue Schwinn served her fine for trips to the market, and the train was better than any car for the rare trips into Buenos Aires.

So, every couple days, Elise would pull my bike out of the shed, load up the basket with her 'bolsas' (net shopping bags), peg her pant legs with clothes pins, and pedal towards the local market place. Our town did not have a supermarket - I doubt any place in Argentina had 'Vons' or 'Luckys' supermarkets. Instead, we had marketplaces. Each store carried its one family of products. The carnecia carried meat. The panaderia had the breads. Fiamberia had the drug store type items, and the lecheria had milk products and eggs. The stores were all grouped at one 5-point corner in town, called Cinco Esquinas (Five Corners, duh).

Elise, now called Elsa by the locals, would make her market appearance every few days. Shopping was precise - you only bought what you needed for that day and the next. Elise never bought a dozen eggs (how excessive!), but maybe bought 4 eggs to bake a cake. She never bought a gallon of milk, but a litre or less. Bread wasn't sold in sliced packages but in whole hard crusted loaves.

Elise/Elsa would proudly use her pigeon spanish to greet the store owners. She quickly became the darling of many of them - an Argentine Yankee. Una yankee Argentina! She'd practice small talk with each shop owner before pulling out her shopping list and requesting 'un medio kilo de carne picada' or 'medio kilo de harina, por favor.'

Some products, like poultry and especially eggs, were seasonal. Not seasonal such as in weather, but as in chickens desire to lay eggs. So, before buying eggs, you were expected to ask if there were any eggs to buy.

For three years, mom asked in perfect spanish "Tienes huevos?"

And then one day, our Argentine neighbor Mirta overheard Elsa asking if the vendor had eggs. "Elsa, que dices?" Mom turned to Mirta - "I am hopeful I can get three eggs for a cake I am baking!"

Mirta slowly pulled Elsa aside. "Never ever ask a man 'tienes huevos'. Ask 'hay huevos', ok? HAY HUEVOS? As in, 'are there eggs'? Never ever say 'tienes huevos'. It means something else to a man."

Elsa looked at the vendor. He was blushing. For three years he had listened to her ask him if he had balls.

OH. Oh dear. Oh my. OH.

It can be hard re-inventing oneself. Sometimes it is easier to just fade into the crowd...

Wrist to wrist

It was 2 o'clock in the morning.
The phone was ringing.
As you shoot up in bed, you know the dreaded feeling. Someone is calling you with bad news, to tell you someone has died.

In this case, 'died' wasn't quite true. Someone had quit living, but he had not died.

It was my father. He had just come home from the hospital after being admitted for pneumonia. While in the hospital, lung x-rays show he had lung cancer. After having the lower left node of his lung removed, further x-rays showed bone cancer.

So, he was sent home to get better. And once he "got better" he would start radiation on his spine and neck.

Trouble is, he wasn't "getting better." He wasn't getting anything. He wasn't waking up, he wasn't eating nor drinking water. He wasn't talking nor recognizing anyone. He wasn't living. But he wasn't dead.

Every day we would nurse him, wash him, talk to him, and try to bring him back to life. At night, mom would sleep by his side.

She loved him all her life
And when she thought he might die,
She tied her wrist to his at night so that
his pulse would not flutter away from
her suddenly and leave her stranded.
-Lynne Alvarez

  I found this poem in a cheap magazine. It described every minute of every night for my mother. Every minute. Every night. I always envisioned their wrists lightly tied together so that neither one could move - or stop moving - without the other knowing it.

One day, dad awoke. He decided to tell Iilya and me the whole theory of using red tiles on roofs in Arizona. He knew the failure rate of flat-roofed houses, the wind damage caused to asphalt shingles, the termite infestations possible in wood shingles, the new trend of red tile roofs. He knew the pro and cons of each material. He talked and talked. He looked off into space and talked. And then he drank water - gallons of water.

And he wanted a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner. He wanted to eat at the kitchen table. The next morning he wanted to shower and dress.

His clothes no longer fit. His 6'6" frame was only carrying 140 pounds. His rib showed and the fresh scar down his back from his lung surgery was rough and protruding. His bones were cold. His shoes were too big. He had to wear his pants with a belt AND suspenders.

But he had awaken. He was alive. And he wanted to talk. He wanted to feel the sun, to look into the sky, and to talk.

BUT, that 2 a.m. finally did come. It came 17 years later. Dad had pneumonia again. And one day, he died in bed. His pulse fluttered away. And mom was suddenly stranded.

What a bracket buster it was!

My NCAA bracket is totally busted. Darn Kansas!! Everyone in my bracket pool has been injured by the early exit of the Jayhawks. One of my colleagues had an odd final of Kansas vs. New Mexico - so the big dance is over for her.

In the above photo, my dad is playing against Bob Kurland. Kurland was the first 7 foot player in the 'big leagues.' Kurland is the really tall guy on the left half of the photo. My dad is buried back in the crowd, just the top of his head visible to me. My dad was a mere 6'6".

After college, my dad played for the Goodyear Wingfoots out of Akron, Ohio. The Wingfoots were in the NIBL, an industrial basketball league, semi-pro in its status. They played teams that evolved into the first  NBA teams, and they also played college teams. You could say these guys had 'the fever' and would play anyone who'd dribble a basketball.

My dad's best friend was #20, Sherman Nyerman (my dad is #17). Sherman started with the Wingfoots the same year Dad did, and they became fast pals. They were roommates on the road, and carpool partners when at home. They looked out for each other and kept each other in check.

After a full day of work, the team would meet at the Akron bus station to catch a bus to wherever they were playing. The team always traveled in a neat, professional attire - long sleeved white shirts, skinny dark ties, dark gray jackets. Some road trips went on for days and the same shirts were hung up at night to be worn again the next day.

To pass time on the bus, the guys would play penny poker. A penny here, a penny there - the losses could add up. Sherman was a notoriously BAD player. He did NOT have a poker face - he had a 'tell all' face. The team would gang up on Sherman and wipe out every penny he had, including his cash food allowance. Gone, night after night on the bus - he'd bet it all.

Finally the team allowed him to bet his cuff-links and tie-bar. They were worth more than mere pennies, and Sherm could run up a great debt in hopes of winning just one cash-crowded pot. On a bad luck trip to Gadsden, Alabama, Sherm had a long string of lousy cards. He lost both cuff-links and the tie-bar and even his comb. He had nothing out in his pockets or on his clothing worth a penny. My dad, ever the best friend, didn't offer a penny. Dad didn't offer anything but a competitive swipe at the deck of cards and an evil eye to Sherm. Tough luck...

Team breakfasts meant all players had to be showered, dressed in their professional attire, and ready to meet the press. Sadly, Sherm was going to be forced to show up without his cuff-links, tie bar, and uncombed hair. He'd be a disgrace... until Dad decided a quick trip to the hardware store would solve it all. Dad would spring for new 'jewelry', but he would never spring for Sherm's poker losses.  That just wouldn't be competitive.

Sherman showed up for breakfast with a set of nuts and bolts on each cuff, a free paperclip for the tie bar. His hair had been combed by his own toothbrush. But the day was just beginning...

That evening, the team moved on to another town in Alabama. A new hotel for one night, another game in a town that was only known to them on the map. As the team stood in line to check into the hotel, the hotel clerk read off the players names, handing out room keys to each pair of roommates. He got to Nyerman...

"Nyerman?" Sherm stepped forward. Dad stepped with him.
"Nyerman? I'm sorry, we don't allow Jews in this hotel."
A deafening quiet spread over all the players. They looked at one another, then all their eyes rested on Sherm. Now what???

"Excuse me, sir. His name is O'Nyerman. You must have a misspelling. His last name is O'Nyerman. He's Irish."
The deafening silence continued. My dad had been the one to speak up. All his teammates eyes were on my dad. Even Sherm was staring at Dad. What had he done?

He had contained his anger but not his outrage. His competitive spirit came out, and he was GOING to win this game. Sherm was his pal, his roommate, and his friend. Whatever his name was, whatever his faith, Sherm wasn't going to be denied.

He had busted the attitude, the pre-judgment. He broke the bracket.

That was in 1951. Fifty years later, Dad told me he wished he had been braver. He wished he had pushed harder. I know he meant about Sherm. But even now, I think he was pretty tough.  

I am...

I found out yesterday that I am my grandfather's granddaughter.

I am not my father's daughter. I am not my mother's daughter. Okay, I am still my brother's little sister - he isn't getting rid of me that quickly.

But I am my grandfather's granddaughter.
And here is the proof.

In the 1930s, my grandfather's family started migrating to California from northeast Ohio. First to go was my great-great Uncle Allen Saint. That makes Uncle Allen Saint my grandfather's uncle.

Uncle Allen settled in Pasadena. After WWII, more family migrated, and everyone moved into Uncle Allen's big house on Garfield. My grandfather (and Grandma) moved in to the house in 1949 or 1950. They pretty much took over Uncle Allen's household. Grandma ran the kitchen, Grandfather did the household repairs, fixed the cars and maintained the garden, and Uncle Allen paid the bills.

Grandfather got a job at a factory called M&M. They manufactured stuff. I don't know what, since I wasn't around back then to ask. It wasn't the candy factory, I do know that.

My uncles and their friends all spent time living at Uncle Allen's (big) house. Lots of the Saint family members spent a month or two or three until settling in Monrovia, Hollywood, Altadena, and even Whittier. Uncle Allen's niece, Eva Marie Saint, is said to have stopped by for a hello and a meal.

But Grandfather, his heart never left his little town in northeast Ohio. As soon as he would spot a car with Ohio license plate, he had to stop and talk. It was nothing for Grandfather to cut off someone in traffic on E. Orange Grove Blvd. just to pull up next to an Ohio car. "Hi there, friend. Where 'bouts in Ohio are you from?"

If the 'friend's' answer was Toledo or Dayton,  Grandfather would thank them and drive off. If the answer was Cleveland... well, traffic could just 'darn hold their horses' till last names exchanged, street addresses were discussed, acquaintances made. Grandfather was a friendly sort, if you were from northeast Ohio.

SO, this past Tuesday I was out walking Shado, one of our dogs. I come up to a BIG pickup truck - the kind with four doors and plenty of room for four adults inside. The truck is stopped so that it has blocked the sidewalk that Shado and I are walking on. I seethe... 'idiot driver'. Why can't he just park parallel to the curb like anyone else would?

Then I see the big truck's license plate is Wisconsin. I'm not from there, but E. is. E. has taken me back to Wisconsin several times, and everyone there seems the friendly sort. Anymore, I kinda view Wisconsin as my future home.

The driver of the big truck lowers his window and says "Let me pull forward, out of your way." All I can say is "What part of Wisconsin are you from, friend?"

Turns out 'they' are from Waupaca. "We" are from Wautoma. But they know E's best friend, Alex. Of Nimphius Boat fame. "Oh yea, the Chris Craft" guy!"

Grandfather would be proud of me.

A mission statement

  

Nightclub

by Billy Collins

You are so beautiful and I am a fool

to be in love with you

is a theme that keeps coming up

in songs and poems.

There seems to be no room for variation.

I have never heard anyone sing

I am so beautiful

and you are a fool to be in love with me,

even though this notion has surely

crossed the minds of women and men alike.

You are so beautiful, too bad you are a fool

is another one you don't hear.

Or, you are a fool to consider me beautiful.

That one you will never hear, guaranteed.

http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2001/12/29

The poem goes on... you can pretty well imagine the rest of it.

And I keep thinking of this poem as I scan old family photos. Some photos, like these, make me wonder. I wonder what 'beauty' looked like back in 1922. I wonder if these ladies were the charmers of the town or if they were truly as stoic as they look. I wonder if I take after any of them. 

And mostly, I wonder if I should have had a mission statement before I started this scanning task (my boss would love hearing me think this!).

I looked up the history of 'mission statements'. Mission statements were associated with Christian religious groups. These groups would send out missionaries - men (generally) with a mission. So one assumes here that the missionaries had a "statement" of their goals, their tasks, their mission.

I am not sure what kind of mission statement I would have for slide/photo scanning. Certainly I wouldn't scan too many scenics. I wouldn't scan too many dumb party shots where everyone's back is to the camera, a drink in one hand, a ciggy in the other. But I would have a defined idea of just what I was trying to do. I would try to define the year a photo was taken and sort my .jpgs with titles starting with the year. And I would try to identify location, people, event. 

And I'd play loud rock & roll music so I wouldn't have the Billy Collins earworm of this poem. I look at this portrait and wonder what Billy would write about them. 

Be nice, Billy... they are my ancestors. And you would be a fool to consider them beautiful.