Magic Carpets

Dad wasn’t one for magic, mysticism, or anything even approaching the paranormal. Dad was logical. Dad was practical (most of the time). Dad accepted anything he could put together with his left brain and a few tools. Having said that, it is also true that Dad had a wild, vivid, crazy imagination. When he gave himself permission, Dad's creative juices were amazing. I've often wondered what his life would have been like if he had really tapped into his right brain and expressed its full potential.

Late this afternoon I went outside briefly to check on the whereabouts of Uma, my black English cocker spaniel. I stood in the empty carport, the air warm and still, the cool concrete beneath my bare feet. And suddenly, for no apparent reason, I was instantly eight years old, in our garage in Redondo Beach, standing barefoot on the cool concrete, amid Dad’s workbenches and tools (yes, even those orange-handled files and chisels), labeled bins, and piles of wood scraps. The memory hit me like I was living it for the first time, eyeing Dad’s wood scraps, visually selecting just the right ones for my latest great idea—my very own, personal, amazing, fully magical, “magic carpet”……made out of wood and nails.

In my head, my eight year old self is gathering together the hammer, the nails, the wood, the four wheels, hammering together the wood pieces, placing the wheels just so…….and then Dad walks into the garage.

“WHAT….are you doing?” he asks, baffled, perhaps dreading my answer a bit.

“Making a magic carpet.” I answer matter-of-factly, with complete conviction.

Dad snickers. “A what?!”

“A magic carpet.”

There are so many things Dad could have said at this point—“That’s ridiculous!” “You’re wasting my nails and wood!” “Clean this up and go do something else!” “What makes you think you can make a magic carpet?!”

But Dad is Dad. Instead of commenting, he asks. “Well......where are you gonna fly?”

“Ancient Egypt.”

And Dad simply laughed that soft laugh of his, then turned and left me alone with my project.

At that point I was back in my carport again, just standing there, looking out at the sunlit garden from the cool concrete. Just standing there, still feeling the eight year old inside me, fighting off the 59 year old. Wishing I could stay the eight year old. 

If I had a magic carpet, could I go back?

This is what friends are for....

12:30am. I call one of my best friends.

I’m having a moment. Again.

Sneaked up on me. Again.

Everything going along just fine and then, Pow! Some image of my dad pops into my head and it feels sooooo real, and then I realize that that’s as real as it will ever be…..ever!  My insides want to cough themselves up and onto the floor, My eyeballs glaze over and spew tears down my cheeks.  Geez I hate those sneaky-ass moments.

Thank goodness she answers. Thank goodness she listens. I tell her how I miss Dad, how most of me feels dead inside, how I can’t find my spark, how I’ve lost any motivation to accomplish anything, do anything, write anything, and on, and on, and on. As I’m talking I’m thinking I must sound like a broken record to her because this is not the first time I’ve called her in the middle of the night when I was having “a moment.”

“I’m so frustrated,” I tell her.

“I want to feel like myself again,” I say to her.

“I want to get excited about something,” I complain. 

“I used to be excited about things. Why can’t I get excited about anything?” I ask rhetorically.

I finally stop talking, not because I have nothing more to say, but because I've worked myself into such a mad frenzy of emotion that my vocal cords can't keep up with my brain.

And she says calmly and oh so logically, ever so reasonably, “Yes honey, of course you feel those things. Your dad just died.”

To which I defensively respond by pointing out a significant detail that she has CLEARLY overlooked and/or forgotten, 

“BUT THAT WAS TWO WEEKS AGO!”

She laughs.

No, I mean..........She really laughs.

She explodes. Like the top of her head just pops off and spills out cascades of beautiful, unexpected, delicious laughter—into her phone, through cyberspace, to my phone, and into my ear.

I have to hold the phone away from my ear it's so deliciously loud.

It's impossible not to laugh with her. 

We both laugh for a good thirty seconds.

We compose ourselves.

I bring the phone back to my ear.
I speak, into my phone, through cyberspace, to her phone, and into her ear,
“Oh yeah…..Good point.” 

Away From The Place That Aches

Away From The Place That Aches

5 May 2012

Two weeks ago today.

Thrust into a place where the only air I breathed,

Was born from a loss I had never known before.

Where the ache was everywhere.

Every second.

Every day.

Fresh.

Raw.

Paralyzing.

Where leaving that place,

Seemed an impossible, unworthy, task.

The Place That Aches found distance.

Returning,

Leaving,

Unannounced.

Six,

Then four,

Then three times a day.

Now,

I choose when to breathe the air in that place.

I sit,

And think,

And remember,

Until the memories take me there again.

And I settle into it,

Let it wrap its tendrils around my grieving heart.

Then,

I unclasp the ache,

Look for fresher air to breathe,

And move away from The Place That Aches…

My Father's Hands

My Father’s Hands

28April2012

My father’s hands had one purple, hammer-banged thumbnail.

My father’s hands were big and bulky; strong and able; kindly stern, and sternly kind.

My father’s hands were graceful and delicate one minute; clumsy and crude the next.

My father’s hands gave comfort, sympathy, understanding, delight.

My father's hands added a whimsical flourish to the simplest gestures.

My father’s hands tapped, trilled, and tickled the ivory keys.

My father's hands plucked and strummed the flamenco strings.

My father’s hands hammered, sawed, torqued, carved, polished, ground, wrenched, sanded, scrolled, …and screwed.  

My father’s hands splashed, and speared, and paddled through Pacific waters; navigated and flew through calm and stormy skies; wandered by foot and by car to discover abandoned shacks and broken down old red barns; pointed.

My father's hands focused, clicked, and captured wind-blown waves, lonesome trees, rolling hills, and s-curved highways.

My father’s hands were the kind of strong I am still trying to be.

I would give anything to hold, just one more time…

My father’s hands.

Fig Tree

Slogging through the grieving process here.
The going-to-sleep last night was not a problem. It was the waking-up this morning that didn't go so well.
Funny how as soon as your brain really wakes up to the day (i.e. reality), that wonderful warm and fuzzy sleep-state poofs away so effortlessly, like it was never even there in the first place. Then, the brain starts churning and rolodex-ing through all of the "things" that define your personal reality for that day.
So, when I woke up this morning, and my sleep suddenly poofed away, I was immediately tangled up in a  knotted up mess of memory fragments--my last phone call with Dad and how he answered the phone, "Nesie-Love?! This is Daddy-O!"; my last visit with him in February and how I hugged him goodbye and said, "See you in May!" and he threw his arms up and said, "GREAT!"; all the times back in the 60s, tidepooling at Dana Point, San Onofre, and San Clemente; his temper tantrums when we were kids; his laugh; his singing; the way he relished food; and on, and on, and on.

I remarked to a friend yesterday how I will always think of Dad when I see or eat figs.

And speaking of figs.......

There is a large fig tree just off the deck at the house where I now live. The tree has to be at least seventy or eighty years old. It's the biggest fig tree I've ever seen--all gnarled and twisted on itself and sprawled out in directions that defy the laws of gravity. The first time I laid eyes on it was when I came to look at the house as a potential rental. Honestly, the house could have been a one-room shack. When I saw the fig tree, I figured I had found the place I was supposed to call home, at least for a while. I signed the lease, and here I am.

But back to figs and Dad......

In the midst of my memory barrage this morning, I reasoned, (because, even in the throes of grief, the intellectual four-fifths of my brain never seems to take a break) that perhaps I should get out of bed and take the dogs for a walk.

Not more than a dozen steps from the back door, leashed dogs in hand, as we started to make our way down the street to "do" what dogs do, I happened to glance over toward the fig tree........

A proud, brown, beautiful buck, all antlered and all alone, was resting peacefully right next to that big ole fig tree. And I stopped, and caught my breath, and just stood there. And he turned slowly and looked at me, and just.....stared. And I stared right back. I daresay, there was a bit of attitude in that buck's expression.

I reached for my phone to take a quick photo then quickly realized I had left my phone in the house (where's that intellectual four-fifths when I really need it?), but before I could think what to do next, the buck rose slowly out of the grass and simply walked off, down the hill, through the hedge.....gone.

1916-2012

An amazing life.
A remarkable man.

Many memories....

Style and Attitude

When I was in eighth grade, I wrote my first short story to submit to a writing contest my school was having. The story was called, "The Adventures of Tommy the Tube of Toothpaste." Before I submitted it, I asked my dad to read it. This was a big deal for me. Dad was never known to beat around the bush with his critique of anything. He was the proverbial bull in the china shop when it came to people's feelings. But he was blunt and honest. So I gave my story to him. He's my dad after all. He knows stuff.

He read it.

And the next day, he called me into the dining room.

"Hey!......." (yeah, Dad did the "HEY!" thing, even back then. Just not as loud. He still had his hearing.)

"I read your story...." (pause)

I waited for the feedback I was sure was coming: he didn't understand the story; my sentence structure is all wrong; maybe go back and give it another try. 

"Listen!!"

"Yeah?"

"I read your story."

"Yeahhhh?" And I'm thinking "Come on just get it over with. It's a silly story, right?"

But instead, he smiled and said, ".....You can write!"

(Wait.........what.........)"Really?"

"Yeah!"

"wow."

Then he handed me my story, still smiling at me. "So you know what makes a good writer?"

"noooo?"

"Style."

"Ohhhh."

"Yeah! You've got a style!"

"wow."

"And you know what else makes a good writer?"

"There's more?"

"Attitude. You have attitude."

It took me a good couple of hours to process all of this new information, but mostly the concept that my dad was handing out a piece of rarely received praise. I mean.....wow. The next day I submitted "The Adventures of Tommy the Tube of Toothpaste" and a week later, found out I had won the whopping $30 prize and publication of the story in the school newspaper.

But that's not the real point of this story.

In the last two months before Dad died, he fell, fractured his left femur, had surgery to fix the fracture, then contracted pneumonia, was diagnosed with COPD, was restricted to a wheelchair, and was then placed in hospice care. The prognosis on paper was six months. Dad had repeatedly told everyone that he wouldn't die until Mom died. How he figured he had control over death, I'll never know. What I do know is that when my brother told Dad that he would be in a wheelchair the rest of the way out, Dad looked my brother straight in the eye and said, "I've changed my mind." And he died two weeks later. 

And the thing that just keeps popping into my head, over and over again, is how amazing my dad was. 

He had a style.

And he definitely had attitude.

A House Without Condiments

A friend came over this afternoon and promptly pinched me. I nearly hauled off and whacked him with the back of my hand, but he stopped me just in the knick of time, "HEY! It's St. Patrick's Day! You're not wearing green!"

"Oh. Sorry." (This is what happens when you no longer have children at home. I have dogs now. Dogs don't really follow the holiday thing. Criminy, every day's a holiday to them.)

Anyway.......and then, to deepen my guilt, my friend presents me with a take-out plate of corned beef, potatoes, carrots, and cabbage--All steamy warm, and oozing that delicious corned-beefy aroma...

Lately it seems my friends are concerned about my getting enough to eat. They keep dropping food off at my house--cookies, bread, Thai, burritos, and now Irish fare! I'm not exactly sure why. I look in the mirror and I don't think I look gaunt or malnourished. I look in the refrigerator and.....

Oh damn!....a quart of milk, a half-carton of eggs, and a jar of peanut butter. It's like a freakin' bachelor's refrigerator.

But wait a minute! I have a dozen tortillas and two English muffins in the freezer! It's not like there's nothing to eat!

Back to the corned beef and cabbage et al. And here's the tie in to Mom and Dad.

I proceeded to dig into my personally-catered St. Paddie's Day feast--set out a placemat (had to opt for an Easter mat with green eggs on it), got my fork and knife--then realized a missing key ingredient--MUSTARD and HORSERADISH--and I reflexively dashed to the fridge to retrieve said condiments so that I could properly indulge myself. Buuuuuuuut.......as you may recall, all I have in my fridge is milk, eggs, and PButt! No mustard! No horseradish! No condiments AT ALL!

AAARRRRGH! The blast of reality washes over me--I NO LONGER LIVE IN THE HOUSE WITH THE REFRIGERATOR THAT HAS EVERY CONDIMENT EVER MADE!

Seriously, the fridge at Mom and Dad's house had everything--Sweet Thai sauce, Hot Thai sauce, Chili Pepper Sauce, Capers, Mango Chutney, Hot Chutney, Fish sauce, not to mention at least a half dozen different kinds of mustard and horseradish. But my fridge? Nothing! No Grey Poupon! No Honey. No Stoneground. No Hot and Spicy. None at all. No horseradishshshshshshshhhhhh! (cue quiet sobbing)

So, excuse me, I have to dash to the store.....

Sugar Bowl

Dad's in the hospital. He fell this past week, fractured his left femur. Surgery was yesterday. Most, if not all of you, are well aware of the risks associated with ninetysomething year olds and major surgery. But, as we all hold our breath, attempt to focus on everyday tasks, all the while wondering if the phone is going to ring any second......leave it to my father to inject a bit of humor (albeit unconsciously) into an otherwise anxious situation.

So, as I said, Dad had surgery. Coming out of the anesthesia, he was apparently experiencing some confusion--not knowing exactly where he was, why he was, maybe if he was....

At any rate.......you know those white plastic containers the nurses use in hospitals for collecting and measuring urine? They have a plastic top? When the top is on the container the whole receptacle looks like a plastic casserole dish? Well, Dad calls them Honey Pots. I remember Dad used to always ask me in the mornings, "Did you empty Mom's honey pot?"

Honey pot. Except......remember Dad's recovering from major surgery, and general anesthesia, so his brain is doing some weird juxtapositioning and instead of referring to the Honey Pot, he's calling it a Sugar Bowl.

It's crucial to understand here that the nurses caring for my dad are familiar with the term Honey Pot.

Sugar Bowl? Not so much.

And I guess Dad, in his muddied mental state, has been asking for.....well, actually more like demanding......and not in a charming way.......the Sugar Bowl.........a lot.

So imagine my brother arriving at the hospital to see Dad, walking up to the nurse's station to check on any updates, and before he can get two words out, the nurses, in unison, ask with a certain professional desperation in their voices, "WHY DOES YOUR FATHER KEEP ASKING FOR THE SUGAR BOWL?!!!"

Beat it.

I have good news, prelude to the bad news, bad news, and good news.

First the good news: My mother is thriving. She loves where she's living. Loves the attention and care she's getting. Content. Stable. Universally happy. She celebrated her 91st birthday last Monday (note the new pic). Good news.

Next, the bad news. But first, the prelude to the bad news. It seems Dad was sitting in his recliner at the ALF. The thermostat is located on the wall behind the recliner. Now picture Dad resting comfortably in his recliner, reading his Time magazine, or the newspaper. Now picture what happens when Dad, who starts to feel chilly (a common occurrence) reaches baaaaack and uuuuuup to adjust the thermostat. Do you see what happens? Do you?

Okay, let me help. See, when Dad reaches back, and up, the recliner apparently tips backward juuuuust enough so that Dad becomes hyper-reclined. As Dad told the story to my brother, "I WAS LIKE A TURTLE! YEAH, A TURTLE! (Picture Dad flailing his arms and legs around demonstrating his helpless turtle-worthy state.) But the best part of this story is how turtle-Dad was eventually rescued. It was Mom. She wheeled in, saw Dad, pressed her handy-dandy wrist call-button, the attendants came, they unreclined the recliner, and Dad, and everything else returned to normal. End of prelude to the bad news.

And now the bad news. Briefly--Dad contracted pneumonia a little over a week ago, then, a few days later, fell at 3am on his way to the bathroom, and was ultimately admitted to the hospital last Tuesday. Everything you've heard about how pneumonia affects the elderly is true. My brother said Dad could barely walk on his own, could barely say more than, "I'm so weak..." Family phone calls were made, fears were silently shared, current airfares to San Diego were researched, adjustments to the weekly planner were contemplated.

The thing is, my Dad is not like any other 95 year old on the planet. (Does everybody say that about their 90something year old parent?) More than a few people, who know Dad, responded to the news of his hospitalization with generally the same thing, "He'll beat it." Which brings me to the good news.

Look at the photo at the top of the blog. That was Dad this morning--bounced back from pneumonia, and a fall, eating well, and on the road to recovery.

A Two Page Letter to Claude Horan

 

 My father is an amazing man, not so much because of the great things he has accomplished, but perhaps more so because of the little things, the moments when his undaunted spirit for life comes to the surface, reminding me how unique my dad really is.

Over sixty years ago, Dad spent a considerable amount of time with the great ceramics master, Claude "Duke" Horan. If I recall correctly, Dad studied with Horan both in LA and in Hawaii. (I found a picture of Horan in his studio in Hawaii. It's the picture shown above.) Several pieces by Horan and his of student Harue Oyama dotted the bookshelves and patios of every home our family lived in. When Mom and Dad moved to Carlsbad last year, they took all of the Horan and Oyama pieces with them, except for a blue plate with a fish design on the inside, signed "Harue Oyama, Hawaii." It's the plate shown at the top here.

My brother called today and shared with me that many residents and staff have become enthralled with Dad's stories about his photographs and ceramic pieces. (No surprise.) Apparently my other brother, who lives in Hawaii, recently sent Dad a book about Duke Horan and since then, Dad has been thinking, and talking, and going on and on about the old days, in Hawaii, in LA, on the beach, and in the studio, with Horan.

Dad asked my brother if he knew if Horan is still alive. (He is.)

Dad asked my brother to bring a pad of paper. (He did.)

When my brother came the next morning, Dad handed him a two page handwritten letter--Dad's attempt, at almost 96 years old, to reconnect with an old friend, 94 years old, who Dad hasn't seen in over 60 years, a reminiscing about "the old days," "at the beach," "in the studio."

I find it amazing.....inspiring.......overwhelmingly heartbreaking, that Dad, at 95, has suddenly decided to sit down and hand-write (an activity few of us engage in anymore) a two page letter to basically say hello, remember-when, and hope-you're-well to a man he hasn't seen in at least sixty years. (By the way, the closest Dad has come in recent years to writing a letter of any length, was eight years ago when he started but never finished a letter to my sister. That's it. Dad is not big on letter-writing.)

It's also amazing because writing letters has always been difficult for Dad. My father is a perfectionist. Consequently, his letters are riddled with crossed-out words, scratched-through sentences, and giant arrows pointing from one sentence to another sentence. It used to take him days to compose a letter that he ultimately deemed acceptable enough to mail.

And so, I am without words when I think of Dad, at 95, getting a bee in his bonnet about writing to an old friend, then sitting down with full focus and total commitment, and writing one two-page missive, without arrows, or cross-outs, or cross-throughs.

I would love to be in the room when Claude "Duke" Horan receives, opens, and reads that letter.