I went cooking and baking crazy today. I was all twitchy today because my dad took my children for a walk to tell them he was dying. He and I had talked about the best way to break it to them, to start that conversation with them. I mean, I had started the general death conversation with The Boy already, but had not applied any of that to my Dad as of yet. And today, my Dad did exactly that.
The Girl took it all in stride of course. I think she’s still close enough to that other side for it not to frighten her or make her feel like she’ll be really losing anything. The Boy, however, had a rough afternoon. I wish more than anything that my husband had been here because The Boy latched onto my cousin D (him being the only other man here besides my Dad) and took him into a conversation I’m not at all sure D was prepared for, especially with a kid he had known for about 2 days. But they both did great. I just watched from the kitchen door in between mixing, measuring and chopping.
It was not an easy thing for my Dad either, but he did a beautiful job with it and was able to hold it together for his grandchildren. I am pretty sure I would not have been able to do that. In fact, I was not able to really hold it together much so I buried my face in lemon bars and angel food cake cookies. Potato Salad and Cole Slaw. I have never been so grateful to have such a hoard to feed with all the family here.
Thankfully tonight Aunt T set down with Dad for another round of interrogation that ended with the best story yet of how my Dad talked his high school biology teacher into letting him perform surgical procedures on a rat, namely removing one of its kidneys. Which he then had to take home for the summer as his personal charge. He hid the animal in the garage only to be summoned one day by my Grandma’s ear splitting scream. Best. Story. Ever.
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
3/26/10
3/20/10 - Let the Storytelling Begin
My Aunt T and Aunt S spent about three hours interviewing my dad tonight while my Aunt J videotaped the whole thing. So many stories and memories now forever committed to the teeny, tiny DVD in our video camera. She asked him about everything from childhood memories, to fly fishing, to how many times he actually got in trouble with his mom and dad, to his best field foraging exploits. Stories dating back to the very beginning of my Dad’s memories. Inciting laughter and jeers from his sisters he held us all captive as he rolled from one story to the next, urged on by Aunt T’s questions and prodding. It was such a lovely evening. I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed as much as I have tonight and all through the day.
I adore these women and I cannot put into words how grateful I am that they are here. I have two Aunt S’s, bookending these siblings. I’ve never really gotten to know the oldest, she’s 4 years older than my dad and never really went out of her way to be nice to me. So unless I was thrown into the same room with her, I just sort of ignored her. But today I’ve spent more time talking to her than the rest of my life put together. And she’s really funny and smart and sweet. She and my dad really renewed their relationship before my Grandma died. Aunt S runs the nursing home that my Grandma was in and my dad, being the second oldest, really stayed in close contact with her to help make decisions and such. And it’s been nice to see that relationship in action. There’s a really wonderful mutual respect there on top of all the shared history and brother/sister foundations. And it’s been fun to hear snippets of the family history from before my dad’s memory as well. Interesting to hear stories from a different perspective, from the first born.
And it’s given me some nice insight as well to see what stories my aunts want to hear versus the stories I’ve been asking for. It’s just such a gift to have them here.
I adore these women and I cannot put into words how grateful I am that they are here. I have two Aunt S’s, bookending these siblings. I’ve never really gotten to know the oldest, she’s 4 years older than my dad and never really went out of her way to be nice to me. So unless I was thrown into the same room with her, I just sort of ignored her. But today I’ve spent more time talking to her than the rest of my life put together. And she’s really funny and smart and sweet. She and my dad really renewed their relationship before my Grandma died. Aunt S runs the nursing home that my Grandma was in and my dad, being the second oldest, really stayed in close contact with her to help make decisions and such. And it’s been nice to see that relationship in action. There’s a really wonderful mutual respect there on top of all the shared history and brother/sister foundations. And it’s been fun to hear snippets of the family history from before my dad’s memory as well. Interesting to hear stories from a different perspective, from the first born.
And it’s given me some nice insight as well to see what stories my aunts want to hear versus the stories I’ve been asking for. It’s just such a gift to have them here.
11/29/09
11/24/09 - A Little Diva and Lots of Stories
Remember how I was saying that The Girl was being the sweetest, most wonderful, atypical 3 ½ year old you’ve ever known? Yeah, I jinxed it. If it were possible, and legal, to punt my daughter, man she would have been sailing into the next county by now. I can usually blame these lapses of judgment of hers on lack of sleep or not feeling well. But she slept great last night (even slept in!) and she’s totally healthy. If I’m being fair, she’s just responding to the up and down nature of the emotional state of affairs right now. If I’m being as big of a brat as she is, she’s being a gigantic pain in my ass and I’d like for her to just stop it.
10/27/09
Tales from the Trenches
My husband is an insurance claims adjuster for a huge company and he occasionally brings home stories that he or one of his coworkers has dealt with during the course of their day. He doesn’t do it often because his area of specialty is bodily injury claims from car accidents. And as much as I try to support him and be interested in what he does, I don’t really have any desire to hear about how many people get hurt every single day. And I’ve made this fact abundantly clear over the last 6 years that he’s been doing this. Having a mother who barely survived a car accident has pretty much put me at saturation when it comes to hearing about vehicle accidents of any kind.
But today, he brought home a story from one of his coworkers that works in the property department and it’s a doozy to be sure. Apparently a man caught a burglar in the house and decided to take action instead of hiding in the closet with his cordless phone waiting for the cops to arrive. So he immobilized the intruder with his own gun and kept him at gunpoint face down on the floor. At which point the cops arrived and shot him. Three times. In the back. And then one more time in the leg. They then proceeded to drag him out onto the porch while they handcuffed the, you know, actual criminal. Then they called the paramedics while the homeowner was laying on his own porch bleeding to death. Oh yeah, and his wife and children were watching the whole thing as well.
As he was relating this story to me over dinner tonight, my mouth was hanging open and I kept expecting him to give me the punch line. But it just kept getting worse! I cannot even imagine how angry this entire family must be, let alone the deep betrayal they must feel. But mostly I was thinking how very, very much I hope they sue the hell out of that police department and I hope that the cops who shot this father and husband have to face him every single day in court.
But today, he brought home a story from one of his coworkers that works in the property department and it’s a doozy to be sure. Apparently a man caught a burglar in the house and decided to take action instead of hiding in the closet with his cordless phone waiting for the cops to arrive. So he immobilized the intruder with his own gun and kept him at gunpoint face down on the floor. At which point the cops arrived and shot him. Three times. In the back. And then one more time in the leg. They then proceeded to drag him out onto the porch while they handcuffed the, you know, actual criminal. Then they called the paramedics while the homeowner was laying on his own porch bleeding to death. Oh yeah, and his wife and children were watching the whole thing as well.
As he was relating this story to me over dinner tonight, my mouth was hanging open and I kept expecting him to give me the punch line. But it just kept getting worse! I cannot even imagine how angry this entire family must be, let alone the deep betrayal they must feel. But mostly I was thinking how very, very much I hope they sue the hell out of that police department and I hope that the cops who shot this father and husband have to face him every single day in court.
7/14/09
Dreaming Stories
I woke up with a dream lingering in my mind. It was equal parts strange and beautiful and I’ve been trying to hang on to it all day and somewhat unsuccessfully. As the colors started to define themselves in my memory and the characters started to reveal their voices to me, I thought wow, this might be the start of a lovely story. But then the day began, with the whining and the to do list and the everything else and as the day has worn on, the dream has started to fade. I’ve forgotten most of the characters now and the circumstances; mostly it’s the colors that have stuck with me at this point.
And the colors were so extraordinarily vivid for a dream like this. There were the most gorgeous shades of orange; bright golden, shimmering hues of orange that billowed in the air like clouds. And every possible shade of brown I could have ever imagined. We were in the desert and it was lovely. I don’t think I’ve ever quite seen a landscape like that before. It was a little like when I wrote about seeing southwestern Colorado for the first time; really seeing all the variance in color and texture where before I had only seen scraggly bushes and dirt. It was like for every minute I looked at the barren rock and sand and dirt, new colors emerged, new levels of texture and dimension. And interwoven into everything were the vast oranges.
It really was beautiful.
And there were camels. I think. And we were on an adventure of some kind. I can’t remember much more than that anymore though. The whos and the whys have been swallowed up by the farmer’s market and playing in the fountain and cooking dinner.
It’s the first time in a very, very long time that I’ve woken from a dream and thought about writing it out. Letting the dream guide my writing into something that probably would not have occurred to me awake. So I am a little sad that I lost it, but at least the colors stayed with me, it’s just about worth losing the rest just for the colors.
And the colors were so extraordinarily vivid for a dream like this. There were the most gorgeous shades of orange; bright golden, shimmering hues of orange that billowed in the air like clouds. And every possible shade of brown I could have ever imagined. We were in the desert and it was lovely. I don’t think I’ve ever quite seen a landscape like that before. It was a little like when I wrote about seeing southwestern Colorado for the first time; really seeing all the variance in color and texture where before I had only seen scraggly bushes and dirt. It was like for every minute I looked at the barren rock and sand and dirt, new colors emerged, new levels of texture and dimension. And interwoven into everything were the vast oranges.
It really was beautiful.
And there were camels. I think. And we were on an adventure of some kind. I can’t remember much more than that anymore though. The whos and the whys have been swallowed up by the farmer’s market and playing in the fountain and cooking dinner.
It’s the first time in a very, very long time that I’ve woken from a dream and thought about writing it out. Letting the dream guide my writing into something that probably would not have occurred to me awake. So I am a little sad that I lost it, but at least the colors stayed with me, it’s just about worth losing the rest just for the colors.
1/12/09
Sweet Paris
I spent a semester in Germany while I was in college and while I was there, I had the opportunity to go to Paris for the weekend with a friend who knew the city and spoke French, so it was a no brainer. It was the most amazing whirlwind experience I’ve ever had. I don’t think I slept at all. There was so much to see and it all had to be seen, regardless of daylight, in about 72 hours.
One of my favorite things though was drinking a bottle of wine under the Eiffel Tower at about 2am. The friend who had taken me, G, told me a story that has stuck with me about the man who built the Eiffel Tower and how by the time he finished the monolithic project, he was sick at the sight of it. So every day after its completion, he ate his lunch in the only place in the city where you can’t see the Eiffel Tower. Directly underneath it.
Now mind you, I’ve never done my homework to see if this story was indeed true, but at this point I don’t much care. I just love the story. And I love that the view of the Eiffel Tower from directly underneath it, is still my favorite way to see the landmark. It’s a memory that always brings a smile to my face.
Most people cluck their tongues at me for not having been able to ride to the top, to see the city of Paris from its best vantage point. But given my terror of heights, there was no way I was riding to the top of that sucker anyway, even if we had made it there during business hours.
No I prefer to remember it, looking straight up, the lights around glowing almost blue with the spider web effect of the buttresses making me dizzy. Or maybe that was the wine. Whatever. Even though it’s been more than 10 years since I was there, I have that image permanently etched into my memory.
And it’s a memory I cherish. For the friends that were with me. For the absolute joy of finding myself in Paris.
One of my favorite things though was drinking a bottle of wine under the Eiffel Tower at about 2am. The friend who had taken me, G, told me a story that has stuck with me about the man who built the Eiffel Tower and how by the time he finished the monolithic project, he was sick at the sight of it. So every day after its completion, he ate his lunch in the only place in the city where you can’t see the Eiffel Tower. Directly underneath it.
Now mind you, I’ve never done my homework to see if this story was indeed true, but at this point I don’t much care. I just love the story. And I love that the view of the Eiffel Tower from directly underneath it, is still my favorite way to see the landmark. It’s a memory that always brings a smile to my face.
Most people cluck their tongues at me for not having been able to ride to the top, to see the city of Paris from its best vantage point. But given my terror of heights, there was no way I was riding to the top of that sucker anyway, even if we had made it there during business hours.
No I prefer to remember it, looking straight up, the lights around glowing almost blue with the spider web effect of the buttresses making me dizzy. Or maybe that was the wine. Whatever. Even though it’s been more than 10 years since I was there, I have that image permanently etched into my memory.
And it’s a memory I cherish. For the friends that were with me. For the absolute joy of finding myself in Paris.