“...striding down Main Street with a determined look.”

It’s lovely to read or hear nice things about people you love. Not so great when they come as condolences, of course, but some of those notes and phone calls can be profoundly moving. And some really good ones, like the one I’ve excerpted as the title of this post, raise memories that can make you laugh and cry at the same time.

My dad passed away on Easter morning. I was in church, a relative rarity, when the phone in my breast pocket buzzed, and I got up to take the call outside, knowing what it was likely to be. I returned to pass the news to our pew, then H and I made the half-hour drive to Maplewood.

As spring came on this year, Dad’s body, so faithful for so long, began to give up the ghost. Visits became short wheelchair rides down the hall, where I’d find a seat and strike up one-sided conversations that involved the weather, H and B, and famous family stories that I got to tell him as if he hadn’t been there. His eyes still lit up when I arrived, and I could usually get a smile out of him, sometimes even a chuckle, but by mid-April, his systems were clearly shutting down, and it was time for me to speak to the medical staff about Hospice care. The two of us had one more moment of real connection, when I worked with him on one of the pathetic little exercises we’d been given: to see if he could touch his nose with his right hand. I think we both realized how ridiculous this was in so many ways, and when I cheered as his thumb, with  some gentle help, made contact, we both laughed. A few visits later, H and I planted what we understood were likely to be our last kisses on his shiny bald head. The next morning, he was gone.

One woman of my generation, daughter of great old friends of my parents, told me that Dad had been the most “sophisticated” man she ever knew. This made me laugh, because my father was none of the things you think of when you hear that word. He was not worldly, or urbane, or debonaire, or suave, or wealthy, or well-educated, or any of the other adjectives that usually factor into the description of a sophisticated man. Quite the opposite, in many cases. But I knew what she meant, and it was a set of attributes that many of the notes and conversations of condolence mentioned. One called him, “fun, funny, gracious, kind, and utterly charming....” Not a bad epitaph.

A few weeks later, we had a slightly eccentric gathering of friends and family, where I said a few words and we buried his remains in a quite lovely spot next to my mom’s, with everyone tossing in a bit of good Woodbury dirt, and a few of us hanging around to fill the little hole and tamp the turf back down. Then we adjourned to the house for catching up (much-loved but seldom-seen cousins and childhood friends) lots of stories and laughter, good food, and what I vaguely remember as reasonable amounts of drink. Dad loved a good party, and we did our best to see him off the right way.

Of course, he wasn’t perfect. He was mean to me about a baseball bat, had little respect for my intelligence, and sometimes failed to show up for important family events.

Boy, do I miss him.

The shah and the chimp

Alan Sloman recently put up a blog post that included this wonderful sentence, “... Mum made it quite clear to me, repeatedly, that the Shah of Persia would not be coming if I didn’t eat my greens.”

(And now, of course, you have to go read the post or live your life believing that Alan was indulging in the merely surreal.)

Alan’s mum’s brilliant strategy inevitably reminded me of something. When I was a little boy, I lobbied hard for a pet chimpanzee. They were all over TV in those days, and as an only child I thought one would make a terrific playmate. Not surprisingly, my parents were having none of it. But no was not an answer up with which I was willing to put. I persisted, I nagged, I pestered. I hounded and badgered even though I wanted neither hound nor badger.

Finally, my father had had it. “You can’t have a chimpanzee,” he told me, “because they grow up to be gorillas.”

Well, there was no answer to that, really. Even I realized we had no room for a gorilla. The matter was dropped.

But here’s the thing. I don't know what lessons I didn’t pay attention to, what nature programs I zoned out on, what books I didn’t read, what simple logic I didn’t apply, in what ways I simply ignored the obvious, but I didn’t know the truth of the matter until my wife-to-be and I had a short sharp argument on the topic in our early 20s. She won, unfairly deploying provable facts.

To be fair, Dad’s answer was probably more humor than deception (though under the circumstances I imagine he was perfectly OK with deception). We are a facetious family. We often say what we don’t mean, and mean what we don’t say. We expect others—certainly family and close friends—to recognize this and go along with the joke, the point of which isn’t always jokey. I was perhaps a little young, but I was supposed to reason like this: “That’s untrue but funny. That’s also Dad saying pleasantly what he does not want to say angrily, which is, ‘That’s it. I’m answering your nonsense with some of my own, and if I hear any more from you something unimaginably horrible will happen to your baseball glove.’”

On the other hand....the fib abides.

Joyous amalgamation

How many weddings has a guy my age attended? Lots and lots and lots. Family, friends, colleagues, and their children and other connections over three generations and more. I remember being forced into dressy clothes and trotted off to be bored at lots of formal, straight-laced affairs in the ’50s and early ’60s. I retain at least vague memories of somewhat more colorful gatherings of the late ’60s and early ’70s, including several where the bride and groom actually wore shoes. (One I livened up with a bloody nose at the reception that required me to be removed from the premises. Who knew a G&T or two would have that effect?) And over the last few decades there have been lots of overproduced extravaganzas I chalked up to the weirdly unmodern diktats of the wedding industrial complex. Lately, it’s been some relatively simple but elegant events involving remarkably self-possessed young couples settled and mature enough to know what they wanted and to do it in style.

We just got back from a weekend in St. Augustine, Florida, where R, our much-loved eldest niece, tied the knot with the excellent Other R. They knew what they wanted and they did it in style. First, they gave sweet B a featured role as a flower girl, thereby pretty well assuring perfection throughout.

Second, they arranged for perfect weather at a beautiful venue. Third, groom R’s mom makes easily the best key lime pies anywhere. Fourth, the families from both sides bonded, and really enjoyed each other.

Then the main event: excellent music, a cool minister, a few special words—brief special words—by said minster, members of the bridal party, and the nuptial pair themselves, that hit the nail on the head. On to good wine, carefully chosen food, jolly conversation around the tables, more good wine, and, along with further good wine, lots of enthusiastic dancing. (Why don’t people do the Jerk anymore? Why do they laugh at people who do? It’s a mystery.)

Great weekend. Great wedding. And it’ll be a great marriage, too.

∞

When we got married, one of us was simultaneously in a frenzy trying to finish a thesis at the end of a distinguished college career. The bride’s mother couldn’t understand how her daughter could be so relatively uninterested in wedding details.

Mom, annoyed and frantic: “This is the most important day of your life.”

Daughter, frantic and incredulous: “I certainly hope not.”

I just went out for a run.

Still an all-star

Dad had a rough transition, both physically and emotionally, to his new home. Lots of consultations with social workers and physical therapists and nurses and docs. A few days with a full-time minder, to whom he was polite, but whose presence he could not tolerate. Most memorable to me was his kicking across the room of what he wanted to make clear was not his walker. The old football player’s final punt went high and deep before crashing satisfyingly into furniture, wall, and floor.

But he gradually got squared away. Issues noted. Meds adjusted. A few key familiar items brought from home. Lots of visitors. And after a month or so, he was a new man. He still wouldn’t use the !@#$% walker everyone cleverly kept putting in front of him, he still had the occasional malfunction requiring light medical attention, and he can’t speak without great effort, and even then is often unclear. But he began to feel at home, and despite his verbal limitations he made friends. The ladies—both fellow residents and staff—love him (big surprise!). He took what the aides told me everyone seemed to agree was his appropriate place at the head of the long dining table. (He’s eating so well he told me two weeks ago that the waists of his trousers were shrinking. I patted his tummy and said, “You know, dad, I think there might be another explanation.” He got it, and laughed. ) He pulled people out of their chairs to walk the halls with him. He danced with staff.

And when I walked into his room a few weeks ago, he proudly handed me this. (We spell it “Dickie”, but that’s all right.)

Plumbing the depths

The two of you may recall a post from a few years back in which I discussed a Thanksgiving notable primarily for the eccentric flow of household waste water and the delicious effect it had on our version of America’s great feast day. You will be amused to hear that fortune smiled upon us and hilarity reigned again this year.

Since our first adventure, we’ve remodeled the ancient bathroom on the second floor, which serves what we call, for obsolete but perfectly good reasons, “Weezie’s room” and “Tilly’s room,” both of which are now primarily for guests. A little rearrangement for efficiency’s sake, new fixtures, a big stand-alone shower which serves our new generation of athletes better than a tub, bright paint. It’s nice but not fancy.

During the summer, H and A competed in a big triathlon nearby. (Which produced this wonderful, slightly staged, picture.)

They brought along with them a number of New Hampshire teammates, some of whom parked campers in the back-back, and some of whom used random beds, couches and whatever they could find in the way of cozy floor space, and all of whom had been told they’d have access to a nice new shower. Fantastic! But after a few flushes and half a shower, test guest No.1 looked down to find himself ankle deep in fecal matter. This is fairly disgusting even for a triathlete, and we were soon informed we had a problem. To make a long story short, we shunted the sweaty off to our own bathroom on the third floor, the one in what was then my father's apartment over our garage, and I think perhaps Paul’s across the backyard. Others just hosed off by their RVs and used their own facilities. Virtually everyone had competed well, they were all fit and cheerful and sociable (a state I vaguely recall myself), and we had a memorable weekend party regardless of the effing effluent.

I called the Rooter man, of course, who pulled the toilet, theoretically cleared the lines, told me the plumbing seemed to have very little pitch (1/4-in. per foot is standard), and that the twists and turns required by the ancient carpentry beneath the floor were choke points. He recommended supplying less luxurious toilet paper to guests. (“Welcome! So glad you’ve come! Please use this tissue paper. And I know you won”t mind limiting yourself to two squares. See you at dinner!”)

Obviously not really satisfactory, but maybe the best I could do. Occasional guests seemed to have no problems—even with real toilet paper. But we were having a fair crew for Thanksgiving, and I wanted to be certain not to add another plumbing disaster to the menu. So I called K, former schoolmate and owner of the plumbing company we use. We hemmed, we hawed, we agreed we’d rather not pull up the floor unless we really had to, and we finally decided to try “pressure assisted technology”—a toilet that uses pressurized air to shoot the water down the pipes. The guy who installed it laughed and nodded when I asked him if it would do the trick. “Just tell whoever’s using it to stand up before they flush or they’ll go down too,” he said. So good.

But no. We clearly had Old Faithful on our hands. A group of friends ready for a good party for a few days? Predictive perfection: Merde

We managed. (We’ve had a lot of experience, after all.) And we actually had a great time.  But Monday morning, up came the floor, and in went the plumber. Bumpings of pulling out the toilet. Whine of electric screwdriver. Thumpings up and down the stairs. Growl of reciprocating saw. Holler from Wayne: “Mark, you’ve got to come up and see this.”

He points at an opening he’s had to make in the plastic piping installed during the remodel. I peer. “What is that,” I say. “A snake,” says Wayne. For a micro-second, I’m wondering how one of the local serpents could have crawled through our pipes. Then I realize Wayne means a plumbing snake, that coiled steel auger you feed through the plumbing to—theoretically—clear it of blockages. “Holy shit,” I say, displaying my grasp of this highly technical plumbing situation. “How could that be?” Wayne shrugs, clearly not yet ready to rat out the Rooter guy. “How much of that is in there?” I ask. “We’ll find out,” says Wayne direly. And he spends much of the day doing just that. Here’s how much.

The shower stall is about three feet by four. By actual measurement, the separate sections of snake come to just shy of eight feet. (One of them was spotted using a mirror and a flashlight and was pulled out by the longest pair of needle-nose pliers I’ve ever seen, a tool so scary-looking a dentist would be proud to own it.) You’ll notice that the one on the left and the one on the right had been doubled back on themselves inside the plumbing, just to make sure nothing much could squeeze by.

Wayne tested things, put everything back together, used a few little tricks to get us better pitch, screwed the floor back down, reinstalled our X-15 of a toilet, and we discussed the obvious: how had this happened? Rooter guy turns out to be the only possibility. But how can you lose that much of even a powered, super-long pro snake and not know it? And if you did know it...? So I’ll be having one of those discussions I really hate with the Roots.

But I think the bathroom might finally be all set. Come by and help us test it sometime. Bring lots of friends.

Can’t we have a statute of limitations?

Because he’s such a dead-pull hitter, opposing teams have been throwing a shift at David Ortiz, in which the shortstop (sometimes the third baseman) moves into short right field. The other night Big Papi hit a looper that would normally have dropped into short right for a base hit, but it was fielded on one short hop by the shifted fielder and he was thrown out at first. This jolted me with a horrible memory flash of paleozoic teen baseball, slapping an outside pitch into roughly the same place, an easy and obvious base hit without a shifted fielder. But I loafed up the line, the right fielder charged hard...and I was thrown out at first. Oh the mortification. Thinking about it even now makes my skin crawl.

So David, just hit ’em over everybody from now on and save me further memorembarrassment.

Go Sox!

The magic of the mile

Sitting on a shelf downstairs is an audio book—already read but borrowed from the library for car trips—called, The Perfect Mile. It’s about Roger Bannister, John Landy, Wes Santee, and their quest to be the first to run four minutes. (It’s actually a bit of a stretch to include Santee, because he was busy running multiple events for his college track team. But he was American, and the U.S. is a big market....) I’ve always deeply admired Bannister, and loved Landy for his profound decency. And just try this on:



What a great, great race. At the time, they were the only two men in the world who had run four minutes, and they didn’t fool around: they both broke the barrier. Each ran to his strength and put everything he had into it. Landy actually succeeded in a way. He took the sting out of Bannister’s kick, which resulted in a mere 60-second final lap and a pretty thorough collapse at the finish. But Landy himself couldn’t quite keep up the pace. I’ve always thought the famous “Landy turned the wrong way” moment was interesting but unrelated to the result. Tremendous courage and determination from both men.

Seeing the audio book and watching this YouTube got me thinking once again about the wonderfulness—the perfection—of the mile as a competitive distance. The U.S. went fully metric on the track some years ago, but high schools (at least the high schools around here) run 1,600 meters rather than the world-standard 1,500, and although it’s about 10 yards short, it reasonably approximates the real deal, which I assume is the point. With that impulse in mind, I think it would have been much better to have raised a middle finger to the metric zealots on this particular issue and simply carried on with the classic.
 
The mile is special partly because its constituent parts are themselves memorable goals. Four laps on a quarter-mile track, with a minute for each being a natural and elegant (if, on laps three and four, seldom-achieved) goal. For reasonably strong runners growing into their sport, it was: 1. “A minute for a lap? Okay.” 2. “Two minutes for two laps? Well, all right.” 3. “Three minutes for three laps? Erk.” 4. Four minutes for four laps? Are you kidding me?”

Then, of course, you get old, and search for entirely different sorts of miling magic.