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.

Clapping Santa

The rest of the world has the Travelocity Gnome. I have......drumroll........Clapping Santa (queue photo). Actually.....we have two Clapping Santas, but tomorrow, the one you see pictured above (queue photo) will be packed carefully into a flat rate box, transported to SeaTac, loaded onto a jet, and flown down to a certain assisted living facility in Southern California where my father will be a happy, happy man because he can start and end every day from now until New Years with Clapping Santa (queue photo) chiming "HOHOHOOOOO MERRRRRRRY CHRISTMAS!" every time there's a nearby sharp noise (yeeeeah......with my father around, do you know how many times a day THAT happens????).

In case you're not familiar with the Clapping Santa? It's like the Clap-On Light. If you get close enough and clap your hands, the noise-activation sensor sets him off. Dad used to wheel into the kitchen every morning (during holiday season when I had Clapping Santa out with the rest of the decorations) and promptly bang the kitchen counter to get Clapping Santa going. Then every other time Dad wheeled into or out of the kitchen. Then when he fed the dogs he'd bang the spoon on Emily's metal feeding dish repeatedly, which not only activated Clapping Santa, but also riled up Emily and caused her to bark incessantly. Picture the clanging, banging of the spoon on the metal food bowl, "Clang, Clang, Clang, Clang, Clang...." with a very excited English Bulldog barking in the background, "WoofWoof, WoofWoof, Woofwoof, WoofWoof..." and then good ole Clapping Santa repeating over and over and over again, "HOHOHOOOOO MERRRRRRRY CHRISTMAS!!! HOHOHOOOOOO MERRRRRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!"

Not like I miss any of that or anything...........

When Friends Visit

16 Nov 2011

Thank God for friends!

Oh wait. Not for the reasons you might think.

Though, I do cherish my friends and would be a dismal mess were it not for their unconditional love and support.

But there are many practical benefits that are enjoyed when one has friends.

Like, when they visit.

Before my friends come to visit,

I accomplish great things.

Wonderful

Unexpected Things

Just seem to happen.

I vacuum.

I dust.

I actually put my pajamas away.

I wash the shmutz off the dessert plates I intend on using that night.

I pull out the “fancy” flatware and discover Grandma’s long lost ivory-handled cake server stuck way in the back of the drawer with a set of sterling silver lobster picks I didn’t even know existed.

I wash the dogs’ food bowls.

I clean the eye boogers out of their eyes.

I change the burned-out bulb in the outside light fixture.

I realize for the first time that having just one chair at the dining room table is not very feng shui.

I take down the photo hanging on the wall in the dining room that I never really thought “went” in the dining room.

I put up a photo on the wall in the dining room that I always felt belonged there in the first place.

I decide to cook things like babaganoush, steamed pudding, and caramelized onions.

I set the table.

I use napkin rings and water goblets.

I rethink the fact that there is a bar in the kitchen but no barstools.

I buy bottles of Perrier and Pellegrino.

I decide it is high time I scrub the toilet.

I make sure there are extra rolls of TP in the bathroom.

I suddenly become aware of every single toothpaste spot on the bathroom mirror.

I clean the mirror.

Then the friends arrive.

We chat.

We laugh.

We share.

We eat the babaganoush and drink Perrier from the water goblets.

We discuss.

We are each silently inspired by things that are said.

Then the friends leave.

And I’m alone again.

But not as much.