Beatific

Every once in a while, people work together in a perfect symbiosis and my heart wants to burst, like the buds in a fistful of flowers that bloom all at once. Thanks, Humanity.

For Sale: '99 Chrysler Sebring--low miles!

(The guts.)

(The very small working area.)

(The finished product.)

Day Two of Larry and Michelle's Extravaganza of Fun.

The Green Dragon's exterior driver-side door handle has finally been replaced, nearly a year after it broke off. I'm embarrassed it took so long. It makes you think about what people can put up with, adjust to, and/or make peace with. For me, it was climbing over the passenger seat, despite laughter from others.

We consulted these instructions. But only at the start. Four steps in, when my dad was completing the steps quicker than I could read, we decided to blaze our own handle-installation trail, and do it ourselves. And by "ourselves," I of course mean my dad. I think his thirty-one years as a dentist--in which he'd worked on third molars and in other inscrutably tiny spaces--were practice for snapping that white clip back onto the rod.

The whole process took an hour and a half. Which isn't bad considering the instruction's author took five hours his first time.

The car will be on Craig's List shortly. Any takers?

A Brood

Today at Starbucks, a woman asked if I were saving one of the empty chairs. I said, "Nope," and she said, "Oh, good."

I invited her to use it, and she said, "Don't worry, I will. I have a bunch of grandchildren." She liken them to a school class, and I didn't think much about it until the woman's daughter came out the door, followed by five children.

The grandmother wasn't kidding.

The kids were all well behaved. I had been prepared to put in my earbuds, but there was no need.

Last night, my dad showed home movies to me and Bryan. After five and half years, my husband finally heard the high, squeaky voice of my childhood. And I was reminded of what a cute kid my middle brother was. And how my oldest brother lived the 1980's in camo. And I learned that my mother's subconscious finger twitching is a longer standing habit than I'd ever realized. And if ever I had any doubts, that my dad really did look like Alan Alda. Still does.

The Starbucks mother did a good job of managing her kids, considering there were drinks and pastries all around. But she did seem a bit distracted. I wondered how many small moments she misses or forgets in the chaos of having five kids--like a long-gone uncle telling a joke while an exuberant little girl pours make-believe tea. I hope she has a video camera.

Thirty Something

Last year I posted this picture.

This year, I thought this might be appropriate:

I'm so glad we could spend the day tinkering with a 99-cent Rubik's-like Cube, scaring Louie by coming out of the bathroom door, and chatting while Grandpa snored.

Related

(Grandpa Joe and Louie.)

Today I saw all four of my cousins together, for the first time in I-don't-know-how-long. One of them I haven't seen in over ten years. That reunion only lasted two minutes, but I'll take what I can get.

We had gathered in Ventura County for the baptism of a cousin's newborn. After the pomp and circumstance, there was lunch outside, photos shared via iPhones, a chicken coop, a trio of dogs, LOTS of family, and plenty of good conversation.

It was also a chance for BO to talk with my oldest brother in their second time meeting (the first being our wedding).

It was a chance for me to talk with my God Daughter, whom I haven't seen in four years.

It was a chance for my grandpa to tell us about another auto company he almost worked for (I think I will always be finding out more about his career).

BO and I drove six hours round trip today. I would've driven to Florida in a Miata without air conditioning or a radio, and no carpool lane, to make this happen.

One Hundred and Twelve

This guy makes my grandpa look like a greenhorn. Thank goodness Grandpa Joe doesn't have to use a scooter yet, and that he always puts on sunglasses when he goes outside.

Ninety-eight Plus One

(He ate every shrimp and candied walnut and left the weeds. Which was good, because it allowed him room for an ice cream sundae.)

At lunch today, my grandpa started talking about how he'd had to learn English upon coming to America. Though his stories have become a bit longer in recent years, with more frequent sidetracks and occasional lost trains of thought, I do enjoy them. And since I'm studying to teach English as a Second Language, I took a particular interest in this story.

He said he learned to read and write at school, but it was the really good words that he picked up on the street. Later, back at his apartment, Bryan noticed a misspelling on a family tree he'd created a couple decades ago. His spelling was never terrific, but he's always gotten along fine. It's the story of most American immigrants. You may never achieve native-like fluency--either in your language or your cultural lifestyle--but because we are a country of immigrants, you belong.

Ninety-eight

(My Grandpa, at the spring-chicken age of 94, looking at patent designs he'd mailed to himself fifty years ago to prove idea proprietorship.)

My family likes to brag that my grandpa put an addition on his ranch at age 80. That it wasn't until 92 that he gave up driving (and gave me his car). And that he's totally stuck it to The Man with his Lockheed and Chrysler pensions.

Bryan, Mark, and I are going to celebrate with him tomorrow. And it'll be nice. We'll take him out to lunch, and he'll insist that he isn't hungry, but will then clean his plate and whatever overgrown dessert we order for him against his protest, saying he only has to eat as much as he wants. Then we'll go back to his place, and try to tease the secret of longevity out of him. I'm hoping his answer will include:

A) good family and friends

B) hard work

C) love

D) charity

E) periodic moments to exhale

F) ice cream

Big, Big Brother

I think he has trunks on under his scrubs, and is going to get some waves once the patient's stable.

Mea Culpa

What good is having your own blog if you can't out yourself for the crummy things you do? Yesterday, I forgot my father's birthday.

I like being able to dedicate a whole day's blog posting to someone's birthday. And here I was yesterday, not blogging at all because I didn't think I had anything to blog about. I am so sorry, Dad.

The best I can do is make a phone call once his time zone wakes up. Oh, and at least post this:

Self-Storage

My parents have a little storage shed that, bit by bit, they clean out. It was supposed to have been emptied and the lease given up a couple years ago but, well, life gets in the way. They are back at it today, and my father called to see if I wanted anything. What he was offering had belonged to my grandmother, his mother, who passed away six years ago. The items he was looking to move (at the bargain basement price of free) were a grandfather clock, a spinning wheel, and one or two other things I can’t remember.

My husband never met my grandma. He’s heard the stories (there are plenty of stories), and we have plenty of video of her, but he’s never seen it. Maybe he will someday.

I think every person has at least one remarkable trait, and my grandmother’s most remarkable was making something from nothing. With an alcoholic father and seven siblings, she didn’t make it past tenth grade. But she could take an item from the red stamp store and return it to the blue stamp store. She could landscape her backyard with carpet, for free. She could trick her grandchildren into sweeping her massive front driveway. She got this granddaughter to eat bread crusts, saying it would make my hair curly.

When my father phone from their storage unit and asked if I wanted her clock or spinning wheel, and I said no, I thought about how quickly someone can go away. If we keep their belongings, do we keep them, too? Through their possessions, can other people get to know them? I’m not proposing that Bryan take up the spinning wheel. But if we put it in our home, and the sight of it sparked stories about her, would he come to know her?

Bryan has one grandmother whom I know only through stories, some pictures. Here is my version of Grandma Wally: that she thought all respectable men ought to use a money clip; that she’d been the one who’d wanted to move to Florida, and her husband had agreed, because he would follow her anywhere; that she loved stinky cheeses. If there’s some object that reminds Bryan of her (other than his own money clip) that we could have, I’d want to make room in our home for it. Move a piece of furniture, give away some of my books, knock down a wall. Because stories, whether about something that’s already occurred or is still being told, are what we are.

Christmas in January

(Dad, Ice Cream Chef.)

Since my family was geographically scattered last December, we held our own festivities this month in Newport. For Christmas, my dad usually carves a goose. But this time we ate in a restaurant, and it wasn't goose. Afterwards, at a park, we made ice cream with this nifty little contraption--cookies 'n cream and lilikoi. Since my dad didn't have the opportunity to carve a bird, it made sense that he'd take the lead on the ball. I don't particularly like goose--because of the meat (it's greasy and a little gamey), not my dad's preparation of it. So I usually take a small slice and fill out my plate with cranberries, garlic mashed potatoes, and stuffing. For next year (which is this year, just 341 days to go!), I wonder if I can persuade my family to have a five-course meal of ice creams. Or at least substitute it for the Jell-o salad.

Coco Heart

My Grandpa once heard a song on the radio that he loved. But the DJ didn't give the artist and song title, so my grandpa didn't know what the song was. He called up my father, described the song, and asked if he knew it. My father didn't. He called The Wherehouse (R.I.P.), and sang the part of the song he remembered. This is what that patient employee heard, in the voice of a Czechoslovakian immigrant...

"Co-co heart..."

This must have gone on for a few months, my grandfather asking us grandkids and anyone he came in contact with what this damn song was. Finally, the song came on while he was in the car with my dad. My Dad recognized the song as...

drumroll...

"Sacrifice" by Elton John. The lyric he mixed up was:

Cold, cold heart

Holy smokes! (as my grandfather would say), was he ever excited to have found his song! My Dad bought him the album, and then recorded "Sacrifice," over and over, on both sides of a tape. (Incidentally, this tape was in the glovebox of his car when he signed the title over to me. I keep it there. I like it there.) My grandpa loved to play this tape and listen to this song, his song, over and over.

Okay, so this is a long-winded route to a comparison. But the comparison I want to make is that, like my grandfather, there is something I once enjoyed but can no longer recall. Last month, I came across an online literary journal where submissions were made via a video of the author reading the work in a locale that's significant to the story/poem. It was so good, dammit! But I don't remember its title. I had thought I'd come across it in HTML Giant, but a search of their blog has been fruitless. Although I did find some awesomely-bad Photoshop work.

I swear, if I can find this audio-file-journal again, I will bookmark it, both in my long-term memory and computer memory. And maybe I'll dub my favorite audio file of theirs, over and over, on a tape.

Inbox

In case you aren't able to stop and catch your breath, my mom has done it in your honor. She swears she was thinking about you while eating her sno-cone and watching the sea turtles.

Thanksgiving

A buffet that spans four rooms is pretty darn good, but enjoying the food with family is ten times better.

Lake Tahoe

(Salmon swimming upstream.)

(Diving for salmon. Either that or these ducks had money in Wall Street and are making like ostriches to forget about it.)

(Chelsea can't wait for some salmon of her own.)

(I forget the name of this lake. So I'm going to call it Lake Pretty.)

(Halfway through a hike. Jim, Bryan, Carol, and John.)

Your Mom Busted in and Said What's That Noise

So Mark, Bryan, and I took Grandpa out to lunch today. Walking up to his door, we could hear that "If You Like Piña Coladas" song blasting from his room.

He is 97, and while I'd like to think that with all those decibels he was taking a stand against rules and anyone over thirty (um...what?), it had to be because his hearing's going. What isn't going is his love of music.

And food. As we headed out to the restaurant, Grandpa said he wasn't hungry but agreed to come and sit with us. And he did sit. And hoarded the rolls, ate most of a salad, and every shrimp on his plate. What a difference fifteen minutes can make.

Feliz Cumpleanos

Happy Birthday, Mark!

Mom's Arrival

At the park.

Happy Birthday, Dad!