Flash Memory: Om nom nom

So, I'm over at Slate, reading one of the page-whoring "You're Doing It Wrong" articles ( a guilty pleasure of mine). This one's about pork tenderloin, and in one of the responses to a comment about "How can you eat cut-up animal carcasses?" is the response, "I tried to eat on that wasn't cut up, and it wasn't easy." And that sprung a memory out of the depths:

I was 15, and had talked my mother into lied shamelessly to my parents to get them to let me go to Greece with a friend. From Rome, where we were living in the early '70s, this was approximately like going to Nashville from NYC in terms of distance and difficulty. But I didn't want to just go to gGreece, oh no. I wanted to go to Mykonos, where my sister had taken my brother and me the year before. But this time I wanted to go by myself, no 12-year-old brother in tow, and hang out doing what I wanted to do. Which I had no idea what that was, but it wasn't being on the most crowded beach, watching my sister and her boyfriend argue, go get high/drunk, come back and argue some more, lather, rinse, repeat. So I bitched and moaned and made a complete ass out of myself a good argument about why I should be allowed.... Eventually they gave in, and off I went.

The whole story would basically frighten the crap out of any reasonable person, let alone a parent, and for the most part I kept my worst stupidities from my parents (like sleeping under a bench in the port of Piraeus so that I wouldn't miss the boat in the morning, with no-one keeping watch), but eventually I arrived in Mykonos, quickly made friends with a dozen Berkeley grads on break, and settled into one of the best times of my life. (I did make SOME attempt to keep my folks informed of where I was and that I was OK; I wasn't a complete jerk, just 15 and incredibly self-centered.)

Anyway, after about a week on the main beaches, we decided to move to a more remote area, mostly to get away from the incredible tourist crowds that plague the islands. And so we found a beach around the side of the island, and hung out together, singing at night to the same 15-20 songs, which were all we knew on the guitar, cooking and swimming and just, you'll have to excuse the expression but it really does capture it for me, grooving.

Eventually, we got hungry for something more substantial than the vegetables we were buying from the local farmers, and headed into town for dinner and retsina. None of us had much money, so we looked around until we found a taverna with reasonable prices, and the 12 of us settled down with a couple of bottles of resin wine and some appetizers, and considered the menu. To our side, a spit turned, the lamb on it roasting gently and the smell of the dripping fat and the herbs just captivated us (we had been vegetarians by necessity, not commitment.) As we started to order, it became clear that we were all going to order lamb, and finally the proprietor asked us it we just wanted the whole thing? He'd make us a deal. Oh, yes, please kind sir, you don't have to offer twice...

He covered the table with butcher's paper, and he and a helper lifted the lamb from the fire, and slid the entire carcass off the spit, onto the table. A sound of orgasmic moaning came from 12 throats, and 24 hands began to slice small pieces off the edges of the meat, a process that rapidly became 24 hands tearing chunks of cooked flesh from a rapidly decreasing carcass. I have no idea what we looked like (starving wolves?), but we didn't care. The owner kept our glasses full of wine and water, and handed out paper towels and we ate, and ate, and ate.

Eventually the frenzy died down, and after some final picking at what was by now the skeleton of a lamb, we paid up and staggered off into the night.

Out of the Mouths of Putatively-Grown Adults

No, not about Glenn Beck or Rush. Sorry :-)

Anyway, along about July 1980, I was on my back to India for a second, hopefully longer visit. (Yes, I know I haven't told you about the first visit. Patience, young padawans.) I met my dad in Rome, where he was living at the time, and he took me around to meet some of his friends, one of whom had a rather fetching young daughter, S. We hit it off and spent the next few days touring Rome (where I had grown up in the late 60's, but it had changed in many ways, so guiding was important) and meeting her friends and extended family, culminating in a big family Sunday lunch out in the country. If you ever saw "My Big, Fat Greek Wedding", you know what sort of gathering I'm talking about: 40+ people, a table from here to there packed with food and drink and the whole thing happening at top volume and high speed.

My Italian is pretty good, and I was able, for the most part, to keep up my end of the conversations, asking vocab questions as needed, letting the older folks correct my grammar when it wandered into slang and generally relaxing and enjoying the wine and food. Especially the wine. I knew enough not to drink the homemade brews casually (they are often closer to 20% than 12%), but I was still feeling a bit light-headed as the chaos diminished along with the food. Finally, we were all at that point where you are looking at a particularly lovely piece of dessert or fruit and thinking it might just be too much trouble to raise your arm to put it in your mouth, when one of the Nonni (Grandparents) asked me what I did in America?

Well, the last real job I had held before my initial Indian excursion that I was willing to talk about (I had no idea how to say "Aircraft fueller" or "Drywall carrier" in Italian, so they were out), was working at Harrah's Casino in Lake Tahoe, CA. So, that's what I said, in Italian, "I worked in a casino."

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then stiffled laughter and sideways glances from the men, and blushes and giggles from the women. I had no clue what I had just said, and trying to fill the silence, I added, "I quit because working all night was too hard."

More choking and sputtering. I turned to S., who was trying her damnest not to burst, and said, "What did I say?"

S took a few deep breaths, and then said, still in Italian, "A gambling hall is a cah-see-NO. The way you pronounced casino (cah-SEEN-oh) means bordello." She had to stop again, as I contemplated how I could maybe disappear under the table. And then, getting hold of herself, "And then you said the night work was too hard!" and at that, all decorum was lost, and the nonnis and the bapus and the mothers and the kids were shrieking with laughter and making jokes and it all went to hell and we had a great time.

So when my little one asks about Brazilian Blow-Jobs instead of Blow-Outs, or for a bathing suit instead of a suitcase, or for me to pass her a condom instead of a condiment, I smile and think that she is certainly my child, all the way.

Building GlennBeckistan, CH. 1A

So, one detail that the sharp-eyed readers have noticed is that each house could be completely self-contained for electricity (solar/wind), waste (septic/compost) and water (well). True, but this makes the space each house needs much greater, and severely restricts where you can put 3000+ people! A three-bedroom house (septic is calculated from the number of bedrooms, not baths) needs approximately 1/4 acre of drainage, more if the soil doesn't drain well, and even more if it freezes. Septic zoning in upstate NY (say, Lake Placid) is minimum 1/2 acre leech field per 3 bedrooms, for example. And you need an oversize septic tank for when the ground is solid, which has to be pumped regularly. Meaning roads have to accommodate septic trucks (low grade and maintained) and, of course, this septic waste has to go somewhere. Who is going to take it? The problem is magnified for common buildings like meeting halls and for restaurants and businesses.

Solar is great, if somewhat spendy to set up, IF you get enough sun. Wind, ditto. And your well needs to be deep enough not to become contaminated by the septic system. (I've worked on a well-drilling rig, and I would like the contract for GBstan if he gets that far. Cash only, paid up front, per 1000 feet.) You will also need water storage for fire fighting, usually a pond or lake. (We're going to meet this again in governance.) And the thought of all the Tea Party wives trying to convince their husbands to sort, recycle and compost makes me smile. It's like they are re-creating the hippy communes of the '70s - anyone remember the Farm in Tennessee?

Anyway, you still need roads. Can't get away from that.

More soon.

Building GlennBeckistan, chapter 1

Well, I was going to tell you all a funny story about something that happened on the way to India in the '80s, but today's news that Glenn Beck is going to build a city in the wilderness for him and all his followers happens to touch on some things I actually know quite a bit about, that being what it takes to build a city in the wilderness. You see, my friends, I did that once, from 1982-1985, on about 100,000 acres of land in central Oregon. We called it Rajneeshpuram.

(When you Google it, you'll get all sorts of interesting things, especially if you use the Oregonian for a source. You should know that my experience of being there and in the middle of the whole thing didn't match what they report in many, many significant ways, and they got most of the details wrong, too. Such is life.)

Anyway, without going into the rights and wrongs of what we did there, let me just say having built a city, I know that it is not an easy nor a simple task. It took hundreds to thousands of dedicated people years to build the infrastructure and systems, and it will be no different for GB, if and when he does something other than create a Ponzi scheme. Let's take a look at what's ahead for ol' Glenn and for the Citadel, too, while we're at it.

First, building a city boils down to 2 main areas: infrastructure (the easy part) and governance (the hard part). Let's take a look at the easy one first, since that only takes shit-loads of money. The physical plant is basically six things: Electricity, sewage and garbage disposal, roads, fire department and water. For 3500-5000 people, you can manage well with a volunteer FD if someone buys the trucks and gear, but the rest is actually quite extensive. Let's take them in order:

Electrical: You need a good size substation for this place, and the power company will not bring one in for free. Nor will it run the lines to power the substation without a contract specifying just what you are going to need (plans, distribution network etc.) So you need someone to negotiate who has the power to make contracts and lawyers to make sure you aren't signing something you shouldn't (whoops, we're into governance already. Well, we'll get back to it.) A medium-sized substation in the 80's cost around $300,000 in direct costs (the actual transformers, etc, a subsidized amount based on the power we were contracting to buy from them), but the contract we signed was for $5.5 million over 10 years, for them to bring the juice in 2.5 miles from the nearest accessible hook-in point. Then another $150,000 to set up the substation and more when we were ready to have them hook it up to our own poles. We had to run good-size power lines to every significant location, so that was about 200 poles; a crew was still working on that when we shut down, 4 years later. And we had a minimum monthly bill, etc.

Sewer: we built our own sewage treatment lagoons, up to spec for the times; they are much pickier now and so more expensive. You need to plan ahead for this, as you don't want to either have to dig up the sewage lines nor expand the treatment plant until you absolutely have to. Every house will eventually need to be connected, so you need a master plan (governance again!) You'll need a landfill  and trucks to collect garbage, and your neighbors aren't going to accept your unsorted trash unless you want to pay them to sort it (free market, yes?) You need trash cans and compactors and lift stations for the sewage (there's always a low point in the system, and it can't be your lagoons or they will fill with rain water. So you need to pump the sludge UP to the treatment plant. Who wants to volunteer to clean the lift station every three months or so? And let all the women know that flushing tampons is a no-no. Ooops, a rule. Or, free market, make all tampons registered, so you will now who flushed it. I'd rather register my guns, thank you. I had to clean that thing a couple of times.) Anyway, this stuff costs real money, and your neighbors aren't taking your sewage either.

Next, roads: where they go (governance), and what they are made of (money). Try not to need blasting, as it is expensive to get good people and more expensive to fix the damage from the ignorant (not speaking from experience or anything,  nuh-uh not me.) Anyway, you need lots of roads and you need to keep them repaired. Graders, bulldozers, excavators, concrete for curbs and sidewalks (do you have sidewalks? Governance!), pavers, oil truck, diesel fuel trucks, more repair people, etc.

Last, but certainly not least, water:  A source of clean water, a treatment plant, and miles of big pipes, just to get to the street where you live. Do you need a water tower?

So by this time, I think I've made my point: it takes a lot of time and money to actually just build the infrastructure. And that, if you haven't noticed, is only to have it exists, not to bring it to your house, but just to have the basics in place so that you could hook up if you wanted to. How you get the services to your house/bungalow/apartment building is another thing entirely, as is the question of what you can build.

But the bigger questions are: Who pays for all this infrastructure, who owns it and how do they get repaid for their outlay? Who decides when the services are at capacity? Who decides how much sewerage you need for a 2 bedroom? We'll get to that next.

Grief

(This was written in June, around the Alysia's birthday. Don't know why I didn't publish it then.)

I was reading about John Travolta and his wife Kelly,and how they lost their son to a seizure, and John described the feeling as being covered by a wet blanket. I know how that is. For most of the first year after Alysia's death, I oscillated between numbness and exquisite pain, pain that was actually physical as well as emotional. I described it as, "feeling like my skin was going to split open and peel off." It is a common theme among parents that the absence of their child is felt throughout their body as well as in their hearts. And the pendulum swing to numbness isn't actually any better, though it is less painful: being absent from those you love and who would reach out to you brings feelings of guilt and despair. You would like to be comforted, but all the attempts do is highlight what you have lost. The natural result is to push away the out-reaching hand, which then leads to more loneliness and guilt. It is a death-spiral of emotions.

A commenter on a friend's blog mentioned a friend who had lost a child and that 5 years later, he was still in the fog. That fog is the result of emotional overload, combined with a complete loss of life direction. When you lose a child, all the things you had planned, consciously and not, are blown up. And it is not clear at first, and maybe not for a long time, just how deeply committed you were to the direction you thought your life was going. I re-wrote some of the lines from "American Pie" in the months following Alysia's death:

"And the three things we had hoped to see,

College, a marriage and a grand-baby

We realized were not to be,

the day Alysia died."

Not Grammy material, I grant you, but an indicator of the direction we had planned. Would we have been willing for her to change? Of course. But that doesn't change the reality that we HAD the plans, and our lives were thrown into turmoil and we felt ungrounded, adrift. That feeling is a big part of the fog, because you suddenly don't know what to count on. Never mind that it was all made up in the first place, it was a plan. And we do have plans for our kids, don't we? Even if we are enlightened enough as parents to say to them, "Find your passion", we still think we know what's best or at least what will work well for them. And by extension, that means for ourselves as well. Their lives help define ours, and when they leave, we are left rudderless for a time, longer or shorter. Recently, I was looking at our granny unit, (we call it the cottage) which is where Alysia and Sean had stayed when they came home. We redid it last year, took it down to the studs and rebuilt it, and it is beautiful. But I was suddenly struck by the fact that the kids would never stay there, and the grief burst over me: who was I doing this for, now? Why should I bother? And it took quite a while before I could think that maybe I could do it for myself. That's how deep it runs.

When parents don't speak about this, when they don't acknowledge with each other the degree to which they feel that they have lost their purpose, they drift apart. It seems to me to be why so many marriages break up following the loss of a child: the parents don't realize that they need to reaffirm their commitment to each other and to the family direction, and so they head off in different directions. This is exacerbated by the differing grieving styles that men and women often have: men moving outside, and women going within. As usual, Frost was there first, in the poem "Home Burial", where the wife berates the husband for cleaning the shovel he has just used to bury their child, and he in turn chides her for not facing life going forward. He thinks he's just doing his duty and then going on, and she understands that the ship has hit an iceberg and needs the captains to direct the action. But he just sees it as more talking, because it hits deeply into his view of himself as the leader, the patriarch, for his family to be directionless.

Most of the books we read about dealing with the loss of a child focus on the distinct style difference in grieving between men and women. But from a spiritual perspective, men and women are the same, and the soul cries the same way regardless of the body it is attached to. Focusing on our spiritual selves, meant that we could leave the notion of "What are we going to DO?" out of the conversation, as the answer for us is something to the effect that we are not directed to a single end point, we are here to work on ourselves in whatever way presents itself. And if that way is to learn about grief, then so be it. It is true that 5 minutes later, we wept again and were bereft and distraught and caught up in the crap, but those few minutes gave us common ground to work with, and so we never were seriously in danger of splitting the family. There were, however, some windows and a camera that bore the brunt of our grief, and still now, more than 2 years later, I can be caught by an upwelling of emotion that can really flare into anger and lashing out at the physical world.

Another thing that our practice has given us is ownership of our own feelings. When one of us was really in the pits, the other doesn't try to jolly them out, or make them wrong, or any of the other ways of not dealing with our own pain that we know. When we are sad, we're sad. Happy, happy. No explanation needed nor asked for, and so no defensiveness and no separation. But it took vast amounts of energy to make this work, energy that we had precious little of. I now know why that during the first weeks, while other members of my family and friends tried to comfort us, we could not accept their help. Never mind that it was in fact a way for them to ask us to help them as well, we could neither accept help nor give anything to them, and I know we hurt some people tremendously. People do not know how to deal with their own deep emotions, let alone anyone else's, unless they have examined their own issues around death and dying, and we were no different except that we knew we could not spend any energy helping other folks to deal with their issues around my daughter's death, having gone through it with our older son not 3 years before. My sister asked my why we couldn't get together to commiserate, and I pointed out that the word means "to be miserable together", which I couldn't do. Her misery, coming from both her love for my daughter and for me and my family, as well as her guilt around Alysia, was too much for me to deal with. There were other friends and family that Joy and I also had to push them away, as their expectation was that we would all grieve together and that we would help them heal. But Joy and I couldn't spare the few clear moments for anyone but our younger daughter and our son, and ourselves. It was very selfish, and, I believe, totally appropriate.

But, as I am fond of saying, we have freedom of choice, not freedom from consequences. And so we find ourselves without some of the friends we used to be close to, a collateral damage that none of us could have foreseen. And that is another layer of sadness. I hope that we can recover together, though I know that there is no stepping twice into the same river.

Happy Belated Birthday, Sean

(I first met Sean when he was 17. It was not an auspicious meeting: he was in Juvenile Hall, where he had been for a large part of the previous 4 years, and I was newly involved with his mother. I had worked with homeless kids at one point, and arrogantly felt that I would be able to relate to him right from the get-go. When we met, I believed I had met a younger version of myself, and it was many years before I understood that this was his version of Steve Jobs' "Reality Distortion Field": an ability to make people think he and you connected and that therefore he was receptive to your advice. In reality, that didn't happen until much, much later in our relationship. He would have been 43 in May. Alysia, my daughter, was his oldest daughter, whom we adopted.
(I put this in drafts back in May and didn't publish it for some reason, but yesterday was the 5th anniversary of his death, and I want him to know how I felt.)

 Hey Sean, it's Yogi. Man, I hope you're doing OK, wherever you are and what ever you're doing. We got some bad news today: Jamie Rodriquez passed yesterday or today. Sucks big time, I know. You and he were so close and he really never got over your death, even though a lot of people tried to help. Kind of like Alysia, but more out front, I think. She really took it hard that you two didn't reconcile: she kept waiting for you to reach out to her, and I couldn't help her see that you really couldn't do it, but that if she would, you would meet her. But your sense of manhood wouldn't let that happen and that's too bad too. Anyway, the better news is that the family is doing pretty well. We miss you, of course, especially your Mom and Michael. He's growing up to be a good man, even though he's still got some ways to go to get out of the holes he's dug for himself. But mostly he's just getting by, he's got a girlfriend and we're helping when we can and when it's appropriate. Mom is still pretty broken up about your and Alysia's deaths. So close together just whacked her hard, and it still creeps up on her pretty often. We wonder what would have happened if you were still here, and of course she has her "If only"s and "Why did I?"s, like you'd expect, and just like I do. I don't think we know the real story of your death, and I doubt we ever will. I don't entirely believe the trial testimony: there are holes in the narrative, and some explanations missing. But that's done now, and we have now to deal with, right? You always did live for the moment, and for the people around you, even if it did piss off your parents, the courts and anyone else. You were always your own person. Alysia saw that in you, and tried to emulate it sometimes. You both has such big hearts. And such little care for consequences! I try not to be too angry with the two of you, but sometimes it just guts me that you both could risk everything without any qualms, or considerations of what might result. And boy, did we all pay for that.
Anyway, your girls are fine, I believe. We talked to the oldest, H, a few times in the last year. She wants to go to private culinary school and then open a B&B, at 18. We're trying to work with her, but she wants what she wants, and won't hear that there might be another way. Sound familiar? Your ex is still just as she has always been, so we don't speak. Maybe one day she'll figure things out, apologize and try to make amends, but I won't hold my breath. We are going to help H with college, and the others as well when they get older. We're up in Sacramento, tomorrow we're going to pick up a new puppy for Aliana and then drive home. We had dinner with K and a friend of hers and another friend of Mom's, and now we're back at the hotel, getting ready to hit the sack. But I wanted to wish you a happy birthday before I went to bed, so here it is. I love you, son. I hope you've always known that. Your other step-dad, Yogi

Out of the Mouths of Children, part 3

"Mom, would it be weird if I described myself as "kinky"?"
"Umm, yeah, a little bit. (hack cough choke) Why, honey?"
"Well, one of the teachers asked me what the problem was with my leg, and I said nothing much, but that I was a little kinky. And she got this really funny look on her face!"
"Uh, did you mean you had a kink in your leg?"
"Uh, huh. Isn't that what I said?"

Too much fun.

Thanks

I've been thinking about what I wrote the other day, the birthday letter to Alysia and the Unfinished Story. I spoke from my heart in both of those pieces, but they are only one side of my life. I feel, and have felt for many years, that I am among the most blessed of men, fathers and husbands. I did nothing exceptional that I know of to deserve this bounty, both material and not, but it follows me like an interested puppy.

Even after losing the kids, both my Love and I feel that we are luckier than we have any right to be. Financially stable, relationshiply stable, 2 loving kids, grandkids, family and friends, we are unbelievably grateful for the life we have. A lot goes on, weirdnesses abound, people are people even (and maybe especially) when you're related to them, but we sail on. I can work up some serious complaints from time to time, but they are really just mostly noise, with a good helping of butthurt.

So I want to take this father's day to thank my kids, my wife, my parents, my family and my friends. I have the life I have in part because of each of you. I learn and grow because of you. (Yes, even you, you lurker. Call me, we'll have coffee.) Yes, I get arrogant. Yes, I can be unbearable. But even at my worst, I do remember that I love you, and sometimes even like you, and that keeps me from becoming SO totally insufferable that you never speak to me again. (Which would be a shame: I have so much to tell you! :-))

So, to my kids, I thank you for trusting me to advise you and sometimes even guide you. More to the left, dammit! The other left!

To my beloved, thank you for putting up with my noise and nonsense, and for believing even more than I do that on this funny path we tread, it is better together.

To my parents, all 3 of you, thank you for demonstrating how not to. Seriously, parenting wasn't any of your strong suits. But your love always came through and now I know how difficult a difficult child can be, and I have lost my illusions that I was anything but a really tough kid to raise. I like to think I was worth it though, and since you're all gone, I get to keep my illusions opinions.

Brothers and sisters, thank you for being endlessly entertaining especially when that wasn't your intention. Thank you for reaching out to us when we were drowning. You have no idea how important you were and still are to us both.

Friends, both online and in person, thank you for being there. Sometimes I feel like I need to reach out to someone I'm not completely involved with, just because it is so much less drama. And the comments and letters mean a lot. Santa Monica girls, you are the awesome sauce of my life.

A special thank you from the bottom of my heart to my Other Daughter. Alysia's love shines through you to us, and I cannot think of what it would have been like to live these last 2 years without you and your strength. You lost your whole future in that moment, and have recovered while reaching out to help us. I cannot thank you enough. Know that I love you dearly.

What's next? We're heading off to NY, to the Adirondacks for few weeks. I have some thoughts about grief and grieving and about relationships I'd like to get down. We'll see what I can get to, between waterskiing, fishing, cooking, boating, jigsaw puzzles, Mexican Train, and assorted lazing around. (Quit bragging, Yogi.)

 

 

An Unfinished Story

Once there was a man, a child, born into a nice family, with nice people who, like people in many nice families, didn't always behave nicely. But things were pretty good until the young man's father died. All his mother would say was, "He was sick."

The man, being then as now a romantic to the core, decided that he would be the "man of the family" and although he was only 7, he set out to do this. but the other members of the family weren't so sure about having a little boy (as they called him, not unfairly) run the show. So they made fun of him, not un-nicely, and ignored him when he tried to run things. This made him mad, especially when he could see that he was right and they were wrong.

The mother, who was pretty as well as well-off, found herself wanting to get away from the confines of her home in the country-side and moved the family to the big city, where her head was turned by many suitors, but none so much as the young italian man who looked at her as if she was the moon, sun and stars, and talked wildly of Art, and Passion, and Love. They were married, and the young man, who very much liked his new "father", sang at their wedding.

Alas, the Grand Love of the Mother and new Father burnt brightly but short and in only a few years, the young man's family was once again broken. The parents fought and made up, over and again for many years, until eventually they became great friends. The not-so-young man was grateful for this, as he loved them both, even as he thought them completely insane.

The not-so-young man grew into a man, and found Love for himself. Interestingly, his Love came with two children, both teens. And the man felt his love grow to encompass the two young men, as well as a grandchild that he and his Love adopted as their own, and eventually another adopted child. And through all the trials and tribulations of raising a family, he read a singular book to the children, younger and older alike. And to his first adopted daughter, he would say, "I love you forever, I'll like you for always, As long as I'm living my baby you'll be." And then he would say, "No matter what. Period. End of story." And she would hug him and then do the most annoying things a child or a young girl could possibly do

And sometimes the man wasn't nice, but mostly he was, and he would always tell her and himself, "I'll love you forever..." even when the words stuck in his craw after some particularly egregious behavior. Because he was and is a romantic to the bone, and he wanted his daughter to be able to boast that HER dad loved her in spite of her behavior. Which he did and so did she.

And the man read the story to all his children, and promised them to love them forever. And he did, even when the oldest boy was sent to jail, even when his heart felt torn between wanting to hug the children or beat them, even when the eldest daughter said unspeakable things and wreaked havoc on the family. And eventually things got better, and wounds healed and the father and the daughter and the son and the Parents all were very happy and nice and sometimes thoughtful and sometimes crazy but things were better for a year.

One freaking year. If you'll excuse the plagiarism, 525,600 minutes, more or less, maybe 16 months total. And on New Year's Eve, the man and his Love got the phone call no parent ever wants to hear. And they buried the older son, and the Love's light dimmed, like a sun behind a cloud. And the man tried to understand and be a loving father and partner and care for the rest of the family, in particular the eldest daughter who was the child of the oldest son, who he and his Love had adopted, who had wanted to reconcile with her biological father, but hadn't quite. And after two years, his Love's light began to brighten and he basked again in the warmth.

And as his Love's light shone again, his relationships with his surviving children did too. HIs son, eldest daughter and younger daughter all loved and cared for each other, and help each other through more trials, but few tribulations. And the eldest daughter found a deep love and the son adopted a half-brother of the eldest daughter (are you keeping track? there will be a quiz soon) and the man and his Love were very happy. And the Parents were there for some birthdays, and sent cards for others and in general all was good.

And as the eldest daughter's partner was graduating, a party was held and the daughter and her partner went to the party and beautiful pictures were taken and sent and the man saw his daughter's picture from 5 minutes before the party, and the daughter promised to call when it was over. But many drinks were had, too many, and harsh words were exchanged and feelings were hurt, but eventually eldest daughter was tucked back into bed by friends of the partner.

But the hurt struck the eldest daughter deep, and she feared losing her beloved partner, and so she found her car and drove to find her partner and she lost control and the man and his wife were woken at 3 AM by the sheriff's deputy and the nightmare began again.

And this time the man understood deep in his bones what he had not understood before: that the loss of a child who you have nurtured is like tearing the skin from your heart.

And at the memorial, he said to his daughter, "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be." And he wept.

And the Parents saw the man's anguish and came to his side and tried to comfort him and generally acted better than they ever had, and the man found comfort in his deeper relationships with the Parents. And some wounds were healed and fences mended and the Parents and the man and his Love and their son and daughter pressed on, though more t 'n' t lay ahead.

And even when the Parents died and more family, and things were just the shits, the man and his Love said to their children (and to each other), "I'll love you forever..." even though sometimes they couldn't say the words aloud.

And the story ends (or doesn't, really) here. But when my Love or my children read this, they will know:

"I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, As long as I'm living, my babies you'll be."

Because I"m still the romantic who said, when he was just seven years old, "I'll take care of you. Don't worry." And I still mean it.

Happy 23rd Birthday, Alysia

I'll love you forever, I'll love you for always, as long as I'm living my baby you'll be.

Happy Birthday, Alysia

On the occasion of Alysia's 2nd Memorial Lunch

Gabrielle Bouliane:

"When you hear that I have died, think of this.

"Think of cool nights breezes while you walk to meet your friends for a beer on a Thursday. Think of waking up in flannel sheets on a snowy morning and kissing someone you love. Think of hung-over diner breakfasts and the best cup of coffee in the world. Think of the sound of tires on seamed highways while you travel, think of French kissing and leather jackets and push-up bras and bourbon, think of the joy of hard work with friends. Then think of me.

"Not sad, not the melancholy solitude of empty skies, but the full days and crowded bars and signed contracts, a smile too big for my face, remember I said I stay busy enough to fit three lives into one. When you hear that I have died, know that I want laughter, and dancing, real dancing, to music that makes you move with out thinking, you’re wearing boots and jeans and a great t-shirt and wondering if the girl at the edge thinks you’re cute. And you motherfuckers had best DANCE, none of this bull­shit rock-nod hands-in-the-pockets shoegazer nonsense. No, make an ass out of yourself, feel your hips, kick off the high heels and sway on the shoulder of a stranger. When I die, you’d better be laughing your ass off on sidewalks, eating deliciously unhealthy food, drinking shots and tipping your bartender well no matter how much money you make.

"When you hear that I have died, the best thing you can do is to get laid that night with a comfortable stranger, use my story to get their sympathy, and when you kiss them for the first time, think of me then.

"When you hear that I have died, and you will, remember your best revenge is to live well, take risks, save up money and chase your perfect happiness. Beat the system and learn to make your art really support you, craft into something your audience can’t live without. Then make the world an even slightly better place ― stop throwing your cigarettes on the ground, vote in the next election, graffiti your life on the eyes of the hungry.

"Then just do me one last favor. Please. Love some thing. Anything. Start with your self, but find passion in everything, from an apple pie to a novel, make a family, get a degree, walk what ever path is yours with your chin up and feet planted firmly. Have the best stories to tell in the old folk’s home, about life long friendships and epic love affairs, about the time you lost every thing and yet found yourself happier than when you began.. and remember that time we got in SO much trouble...

"Poets, remember: This is the story that never ends. When one of us leaves, another walks through the door. The pages turn, the sun keeps rising. All you can do in the meanwhile...is to speak for yourself. Raise your voice high, tell your story, join hands against the dark and sing our souls to the sky. Know the best in me comes from the best in you, that as you tell your story, you will be telling mine, and our lives will be linked together for ever, and every one who hears you will become a part of the change we make.

"So when you hear that I have died...
just …live."

25 hours, door to door

We were 15 minutes from leaving the house when my phone burped, and spat out a text message: "Your flight has been cancelled. If you need help, please call us. Have a nice day." What the fuck? A quick peek on the Air France site confrmed it: Our first leg, LAX to Paris, had been cancelled. OK, kick into gear, call Orbitz and fix the problem. Phone tag, hold on sir, I'll find the right person, hold on please, where are you going? Where's Catania? Sicily? OK, let's fix it. Hold on, please. Just a few minutes more, please. 45 ninutes later: OK, you're rebooked all the way through. Have a great flight. Off to the airport. Check bags, clear TSA stupidity, go have some lunch, wait a bit more, confirm the flights, wait some more. Soon enough it's time and we're off! Only 3 1/2 hours behind. Not a problem, we were due into Catania (on the east coast of Sicily) after 6PM local time, so arriving later just means we hit the hotel and pass out instead of hitting the hotel and waiting to pass out, fine. 10 1/2 hours later, a reasonable airline meal, plenty of wine and a restless sleep later, land in Paris. Always enjoy landing here, the countryside is so pretty, and the roads with their endless roundabouts make me giggle nervously at the memory of figuring out how to use them without getting run over by a truck. Good times. Exit to the endless concrete tunnels that connect the various parts of Charles De Gaulle airport, pass through immigration and security with only a minor glitch: Aliana's treasured bracelet kept setting off the metal detector and it's really tough to remove, but she managed. Now, where's the flight to Rome? Delayed. OK, hang in there. When will we leave? And arrive? I thnk that'll be too close for comfort for our last leg? Check with the gate agent. We're OK? Fine, have a nap while we wait. Ahh, boarding time. Delayed. Don't Panic, you have a towel :-) Breathe. Get inline to talk to the agent. Think about kicking the German passenger in front of you who seems to think that abusing the staff will make the plane magically appear. Watch the agent's smile become fixed to her face as she repeats herself again. Finally he stomps off and I smile at her and give her the raised eyebrow and shrug that means, What can you do with an idiot? and we're friends. The incoming plane is delayed, a fresh crew is on its way, your booking is still fine, don't worry. When you get to Rome, your outbound flight is only 100 feet from the incoming gate. May I see your luggage tags? Your bags are correctly checked. May I give you a voucher? We're so sorry, but I think it will all work out. Merci, have a nice flight. Well, OK, then. Get a sandwich, get on board, Off we go, only an hour to Catania. Hey, we're here! Remember I don't speak Italian until we're past customs etc. (My Italian is good enough to get us into trouble, but not good enough to get us out. Better to just speak English.) Here are the bags! It's a miracle! Out the door, find a cab, off to the hotel. 10 minute bumpity-bump with a taciturn driver, clearly not an Italian and we're here. Look! It's my sister and her family: they made it down from Venice and we are now all together. Phew. A quick snack of left-over sandwiches and some prosciutto from the bar menu, and it's time for lights out. What time is it? 1AM local, 4PM yesterday in LA, who cares, we're here.

Equality

If you are allowed have health insurance because of who you are married to, and I can't, you have special rights, not me.

If you can sit at a lunch counter with your spouse and not be ridiculed, and I am forbidden to speak about it on pain of a beating, we do not have equal rights, you have special rights.

If you can go to school without being mugged for the way you dress or speak and I can't, we aren't equal.

If your taxes are calculated by averaging your spouse's pay with yours, and by law mine cannot be, we are not equal.

If you can get married by signing a piece of paper, and I have to pass a law to live unmolested with my chosen partner, you have special rights, not me.

If you can go to the hospital, and decide on the treatment for your spouse because you are of the opposite gender from them, you have special rights, not me.

If you demand that we let you keep your special rights, by calling our demand for equality a "Special Right", then you are blind, and mean-spirited, not me.

If you try to keep us from having equality, by hiding your mean-spirited behavior behind a religious curtain, you are a hypocrite when you claim that we are looking for special rights, because in fact you are seeking nothing less than special consideration of your religious beliefs.

Every human being, gay, straight, lesbian, bi-sexual, transgender, undecided, decline-to-state, every single human being on this planet deserves nothing less than legal equality. And nothing more. This world is too damn tough to have to fight each other just to have one's basic rights not be limited. "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal" is not empty rhetoric, but the reality that this country was founded on, the first country in the world founded so.

For those who believe that allowing others to behave in ways that they disagree with will result in the destruction of society, I cannot tell you how intensely I desire the destruction of that "society." When my friends, my children, my family are attacked because of who they love, and you stand there and give your approval, it's time for your way of life to end.

I grew up surrounded by men and women with same-sex and opposite-sex partners. They were and are my family. I cannot fathom the hatred and sheer meanness of a group of people in Washington State and California who would deny their fellow humans the right to have the family of their choice, and still describe themselves as having "pro-family values." I know it is a dog-whistle for right-wing christianity, but I cannot wrap my head around it. How small must your heart be to do this?

In a couple of weeks, I am going to visit a dear friend in the heart of Michelle Bachman territory. Recently, several gay teenage children have committed suicide in a suburb close to where I'll be. (It's in the current Rolling Stone, if you have the stomach for it.) Part of my work is to make sure that the GBLT and questioning teens I meet know that there are adults who will protect them, unlike the cowardly teachers and administration of their schools, who piously defended their inactions. I don't seek confrontation, but I will not back away from it.

The Happiest Dog

He was born in September, 2007, amid the smoke and fumes from the Southlands’ worst fires in decades. His sire was a decorated rescue dog from Germany; his dam, a future champion herder. The kennel recorded the litter with the letter, “S”, and all the pups were christened with “Smokin’ ” as their middle name.

I wanted an Australian Cattle Dog (aka Blue Heeler), as enough time had passed since a tumor punctured the heart of my beloved heeler Chelsea (and soon after my heart as well) for me to be ready for a new dog. We wanted a male as in this breed they tend to be less intense than the females, and either a red merle or a red/blue mix. Joy found Wallaby Kennel down in Bonsall, and they had a recent litter that would be ready in late November. But the only pup left when we arrived was a little red bitch, who was cute, but not the right dog for us.

2 weeks later, the kennel called to ask if were still interested in a mixed-color male who had been returned from his prospective family. Apparently, the new parents had just let him out into their (unfenced) yard, and the neighbor’s German Shepard had taken a strong dislike to the little guy. Unwilling or unable to deal, they returned him to the kennel. We were next on the wait list and in December we became his new family. On the way home, searching for a name, I came up with “Tucker”, Aussie slang for food, and given his delight in his meals, it was an appropriate choice, and “Wallaby’s Smokin’ Tucker” it was.

He was supposed to be my dog, but once he got home, it became obvious that this was not to be. Aliana took one look at him, and that was that: she loved him and he loved her back. “My fuzzy teddy bear”, she called him, and he showered her with licks and snuggles. He looked like a furry cross between a Corgi and a pot-bellied pig, swayed like J-Lo when he walked and shed like there was no tomorrow, and she could not have cared less.

Ana & Tucker

Oh, he was a cute little boy: pudgy and happy, into everything the way puppies are. Oliver, our 3-year-old Golden Doodle, was delighted to have a playmate at first, but as time went on and Tucker’s natural dominance grew, Oliver stepped into the back-ground to avoid being run over by Tucker on his way to a tennis ball. We got used to the sound of snapping jaws as his mouth closed on thin air (he wasn’t a very good catcher), and gradually the gnawing on everything in sight slowed, though not before the piano bench and several chairs bore scars.

Oliver & Tucker

Around the time we got Tucker, our older daughter Alysia adopted a cute little mutt named Bella from a shelter in San Francisco, and when she came to visit, the two pups became fast friends. In fact the three of them became a pack, and the rough-housing wouldn’t stop until parents intervened, and sent one or another to bed. It was like being with 3 4-year-old boys, who just happened to be wearing fur coats and liked to snap at each other.

Tucker, Bella & Oliver

And sniff cat butts. In fact, it was not uncommon to see Tucker walking around the house with his nose pressed deep into a cat behind. Our grey tabby, Gracie, enjoyed this so much we were often tempted to offer her a cigarette when they were done. And so, one night we were treated to the spectacle of Tucker, with his nose pressed against Gracie’s hind end, while Oliver humped Tucker, and Bella (not to be left out) tried to hump Oliver. Yes, folks, it was an interspecies gay orgy, right there in the living room. My regret is that I couldn’t get it on film to send to Pat Robertson.

When Tucker was 18 months, he decided that he wanted the ball so badly, he learned to swim. At first, his coat soaked up the water so much that he swam essentially vertically. But as time went on, he learned to motor very efficiently and quickly retrieve the “errant” throw, bring the ball back to us, and crouch in the ready position, tail flicking back and forth, and barking if we didn’t throw quickly enough for him.

His favorite resting spot: we call it, "monorail dog."
He would sometimes patrol the patio by walking back and forth along the wall.

About that bark. I took him to agility training at the Humane Society, and we had a great time. Until he decided that he wanted one of the other dog’s attention, and let loose with one of his “stun the cow” barks. This noise, so high pitched it was actually painful, cause the entire class to stop and see what or who was torturing an alien being. At which point Tucker went over and sat next to his new best friend, smiling and wagging his tail to beat the band. And then barked again, which led to the leader asking if everything was all right? And, except for bleeding ears, it was.

Then, last year in March, the animals were passing some sort of upper respiratory virus around, first with the cats hacking and sneezing, then Oliver, and finally it seemed to be Tucker’s turn and so we didn’t worry too much. But it never got better, and so off to the vet we went. And, from there things got worse, until we ended up with a diagnosis of Lymphoma, Stage 5b. Oof.

Even through the chemo, we had good days, lots of them. Right to the very end, he was never unhappy, going off with the techs to get his next dose even when it made him sick. But there is no cure for animal lymphoma, only palliation, and 10 months later it was time to say good-bye. And then, there were no more words.

Wallaby's Smokin' Tucker

9/2007 - 1/2012

May you chase and catch all the balls your big, furry heart desires.

Susanna Photos

OK, so I didn't finish any of the summer/falls stuff, but I'm going to. Really. I promise.

Let's start with a couple of photos of the Good Ship s/v Susanna.

That's her, in the foreground. There's another boat right behind her, with a green and white spinnaker, named Gentian. We're in the Deer Isle Thorofare, in Maine. We're winning. :-)

In harbor, near Camden, ME.

My Mom, in 2009, I think. She was never happier than aboard Susanna. Sleep well, dear.

On the flatbed which brought her from Maine. That's another story in itself, as she's almost 14 feet tall, and if they couldn't have kept her low, we would have needed to send a pair of escort vehicles to move power lines to let her under.

In the water at last, in Ventura.

And finally, ready to go.

I've sailed with my brother a couple of times now, once just the two of us, and it is a lot of fun. But boy oh boy, am I glad it's him thinking about taking care of her and not me! It's a LOT of work.

OK, one down, a few more to go.

Chili con carne for a Super Bowl crowd

So, a week from Sunday, 1/2 the country will eat itself into a coma, while watching grown men hurl themselves around a field. I will be one of them, rooting with my wife for the Giants :-)

Before that, however, we will host a tailgate party, and this is part of what I'm cooking up.

Chili for a small crowd.

Makes about 4 quarts, easily doubled or tripled.

Base:

1 large yellow onion

1 head garlic

1 large can diced green chilis, hot or mild

3 bottles or cans dark beer, like Negro Modelo

3 # ground beef

1 large or 2 small cans diced tomatoes (I use the fire-roasted ones for more flavor)

Spices:

10-15 dried Ancho Chilis, prepared as below (most authentic, most delicious and most time consuming)

or

2 packages Carroll Shelby's Chili fixings (my favorite, easiest, flavorful, straighforward)

or

1/4 - 1/2 cup Penzey's Chili 9000 mix (tasty choice, order now)

or

a large amount of your favorite chili blend (most comfortable)

(if you are using the Anchos, you will also need 2 tsp cumin, 1 tsp ground coriander, 1/4 tsp cinnamon, 1TBS dried oregano, and 1 TBS adobo seasoning)

2 whole Habanero peppers

2 TBS creamy peanut butter

1/4 cup masa harina (corn flour for tortillas, which comes with the Shelby mix, but is available at most supermarkets in our area.)

For Serving:

Red skin or dry roasted peanuts

Chopped jalapenos

Chopped habaneros

Grated cheddar cheese

Sour Cream

Chopped red onion

Chopped cilantro

Corn and/or flour tortillas

Taste the beer. Seriously, just taste it. You'll want to know later how much to add.

If you're going to go whole hog and make the chili base from scratch, start by heating a large skillet over med-high heat, and toast the ancho chilis (not the green chilis!) a few at a time until they are browned. Remove them to a plate and let cool, then cut them open with a pair of scissors, and remove some or all of the seeds and veins, which is where the heat is. Put the prepared chilis in a bowl, and cover with warm water to soften, 30 minutes. Then puree the chilis in a blender, adding more warm water if necessary to get a thick sauce. Strain the mixture into a bowl, stir in the spices and set aside.

Taste the beer again. Make sure you have at least a 1/2 bottle left or open another.

Finely chop the onions and garlic, and saute the onions in peanut oil or vegetable oil over low heat in a dutch oven or large pot until very soft, 15-20 minutes, then add the diced green chilis and the garlic and saute until very fragrant and softened.  Remove the veggies, and add 2 TBS oil and turn the heat to high. Brown the meat in batches, removing it when ready and adding the next batch, taking care not to burn the pan. When all the meat has been browned, pour in (up to) 1/2 bottle beer, and scrape the pan to get up the flavorful bits that stuck to the bottom. Let the beer cook for a bit to burn off some of the alcohol, and then add the meat and veggies back to the pan and stir to blend. Add the chili and its spices if you're going that route, or the packaged spices, and stir well. Add the tomatoes, and stir again. If the chili looks thick at this point, add a can or two of water (if you use the Shelby's, you will need the water.) Lower the heat to medium and bring to a simmer, then turn the heat right down, add the peanut butter and stir until blended, and then drop in the whole habaneros, which will add a lot of flavor, but not a lot of heat unless they are cut open. <--- WARNING

Now, put the whole thing in a 250 degree oven for 4-6 hours, which makes sure nothing burns. You could use a crock pot, or a flame tamer and leave it on the stove, but whichever way you cook it, you do need to check a couple of times for spiciness, and fish out the habaneros if the chili is getting too hot. Use the beer to cool your mouth.

When the chili has cooked for a couple of hours, taste for salt by spooning out a couple of tablespoons, and adding a little salt to that first. (Salt changes the way food tastes, so it's best to check on the side before adding it to the whole pot.) Now you can mess with the flavor by adding more spices, a little brown sugar, etc. The chili should cook for at least 4 hours. There will probably be a puddle of red oil floating on top: don't get rid of it! Or, at least not all of it, because it's where a lot of the oil-soluble flavors are! Instead, mix 1/4 cup masa harina with enough COLD water to make a thin, pourable batter, and add 1/2 slowly to the chili. Mix well, and add more if it's not thick enough.

Done. Now open another beer (you did save ONE, didn't you?) and enjoy. If the chili will be served cool or at room temp, it will SEEM less spicy, but the next day your lower body will know exactly how spicy it was, so be careful.

Bonus tip: when you chop spicy peppers, you inevitably get pepper juice on your hands, which is tough to get off before you do something silly like pick your nose or go to the bathroom. So, before you have an emergency which will cause your spouse/friends/rommies to fall around the room laughing at you, when you are done chopping the peppers, rub a teaspoon or two or vegetable oil on your hands, and thoroughly rub the oil in, paying special attention to the places that the pepper juice could get into. Then wash your hands well with soap and hot water, and still be careful for a while. (Until your next shower, anyway.) OK? OK!

A Motley Fool is still a Fool

God, it hurts to give the idiots any link love at all, but if you are using Motley Fool as a tool to help you learn to invest, you deserve all you lose.

http://www.fool.com/investing/general/2012/01/25/what-were-154-million-apple-fans-thinking.aspx

The basic idea is that you should wait to buy a new product until just before the new one comes out, thereby saving yourself some money. It apparently has never occurred to this fool that if everyone did that, there would be no new products.


And he proudly calls himself Aristotle. Un-fucking-believable.

A little Sunday Funny

From Roger Knapp's "Jokes of the Past Weeks":

A newly discovered chapter in the Book of Genesis has provided the answer to "Where do pets come from?" Adam and Eve said, "Lord, when we were in the garden, you walked with us every day. Now we do not see you anymore. We are lonesome here and it is difficult for us to remember how much you love us." And God said, "No problem! I will create a companion for you that will be with you forever and who will be a reflection of my love for you, so that you will love me even when you cannot see me. Regardless of how selfish or childish or unlovable you may be, this new companion will accept you as you are and will love you as I do, in spite of yourselves."
And God created a new animal to be a companion for Adam and Eve. And it was a good animal. And God was pleased. And the new animal was pleased to be with Adam and Eve and he wagged his tail. And Adam said, "Lord, I have already named all the animals in the Kingdom and I cannot think of a name for this new animal."



Go on, go to Roger's site to read the rest. You didn't think I'd spoil the ending, did you?


Love and laugh's to all.

---

A non-Thanksgiving recipe

While everyone's getting ready for the big day, making all the usual stuff, I tend to be thinking about what I can cook for the day before and the day after, especially things that don't't involve cranberries or stuffing. This is this year's effort. If you have questions, I'll do my best to answer.

Tuscan Chicken and Sausage Stew.

Feeds 4-8, takes a couple of hours, including cooking time. Great with garlic bread, side salad, etc.


1 cup diced shallots
4 cloves garlic
1 15-oz can cannellini or Great Northern white beans
1 whole chicken, cut up, or 8 chicken thighs, skin removed if desired
1/2 - 1 pound italian sausage, cut into bite-size pieces
1-1 1/2 cups dried small pasta, aciuge di pepe or orzo or similar
3 TBS olive oil
Pinch red pepper flakes to taste (Aleppo pepper works well, too)
1 tsp dried italian seasoning, or Penzey’s Tuscan Sunset
3 TBS tomato paste (about 1/2 little can)
1/2 cup dry red wine
1 14-oz can chopped tomatoes, or 1/2 large can of peeled tomatoes in sauce, chopped
3/4 cup chicken broth
1 small head bok choy, or small head escarole, or 4 cups baby spinach, trimmed and chopped into bite-size pieces, optional.
1/2 cup grated Pecorino or Parmesan cheese.
Preheat oven to 300〫

Season chicken with salt and pepper, then brown in a large pan or dutch oven with olive oil, in batches if necessary. Remove to a platter, cover. Brown sausage in same pan, breaking up as little as possible. Add to chicken platter.

Reduce heat to medium, add shallots, garlic, red pepper and herbs; cook, stirring until shallots are soft, about 5 minutes. Add tomato paste and cook, stirring, until brick red, about 1-2 minutes. Add wine and deglaze pan, then cook until reduced to syrupy texture.

Add beans, tomatoes and chicken broth, bring to boil. Return chicken and sausage to pan, with all accumulated juices. Put pan in oven, cook 45 minutes, until chicken is fully cooked. (Or cook on stovetop 20-30 minutes.) You may need to skim fat from the pan at this point.

Add pasta, and cook on stovetop until pasta is done, adding broth or water as necessary. Add greens if using, and heat through, about 4-5 minutes. Ladle into bowls, and top with cheese.

How many children do you have?

How old are your kids?  

How do I answer such an innocuous question?

Often, I can't . Or sometimes I just start crying. Which is really difficult for people in the grocery store, who think they're being nice (which they are: they have no idea what a can of worms they're opening.)

Sometimes I answer, "I have 2 living children." Which is just begging for a question I don't really (or really don't) want to answer. Sometimes I ignore it, and answer something else. Sometimes I pretend I never buried 2 kids, and answer "Two", which leaves me feeling like Judas.


6 months after Alysia died, I found an old friend online. When he asked me about kids, I couldn't answer. A year has gone by. Now what do I say when I try again to reconnect?

Four. I fucking well have four kids. Just because you can't see two of them, doesn't mean they're not there.

But I still don't know how to answer.

It's not up to us

to decide when others are ready to heal.

"There will now be a decade or more of criminal trials, and perhaps a quarter-century or more of civil actions, as a result of what went on at Penn State. These things cannot be prayed away. Let us hear nothing about "closure" or about "moving on." And God help us, let us not hear a single mumbling word about how football can help the university "heal." (Lord, let the Alamo Bowl be an instrument of your peace.) This wound should be left open and gaping and raw until the very last of the children that Jerry Sandusky is accused of raping somehow gets whatever modicum of peace and retribution can possibly be granted to him. This wound should be left open and gaping and raw in the bright sunlight where everybody can see it, for years and years and years, until the raped children themselves decide that justice has been done. When they're done healing — if they're ever done healing — then they and their families can give Penn State permission to start."

Right to the point, and right on.
http://www.grantland.com/story/_/id/7233704/the-brutal-truth-penn-state

Death and Living

I posted a quote on my facebook status:

"How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand... there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend, some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold." Frodo Baggins, "The Lord of the Rings"

A friend posted a reply:
"There is no going back, only moving forward. Not always easy, and healing nonetheless."

Another friend said, "One day you will notice that acceptance has replaced today's grief, and that you are fully engaged in this day, this life."

I love my friends, and I have to disagree with them. This post is my reply. It's far to long to go on facebook, and I wanted time to think before I answered.

Some background on the original quote, for those who haven't memorized large portions of the book or movies. Frodo, a hobbit (who is an avatar, essentially, for everyman), inherited a ring of great power and evil. He undertook the year-long journey to destroy it, nearly dying in the process, and at the end of the story is once again living in his old home. But not everything is the same: HE is not the same, and so everything around him is different. His wounds pain him, the memories of death and dying haunt him, the burden he bore changed him fundamentally, and while he knows that what he did was the right thing, he also paid a dear price for doing it. In time he realizes that he is permanently changed, damaged beyond repair by the events of the journey.

Joy and I decided over the summer to let our daughter watch the Lord of the Rings, and that I would watch it with her, to answer the inevitable "WTF just happened!?!" questions, and to pace it. So we watched the extended versions, all 13+ hours of it, in 3 chunks over 6 weekends. And I was struck once again at how sad a story it is. No one is unchanged, nothing will remain the same, some things better, others worse, everything different. And that quote just jumped out at me.

This is what I was trying to say: that no matter what, there are things from which there are no return. Acceptance is wonderful, healing is necessary, but neither healing nor acceptance change the raw facts, nor do they magically wash away the pain. Ask a man who has lost a limb, and they will tell you of acceptance and healing, and of the fact that there is never a moment when they are what they once were. It is the same with the loss of a child: it is fundamentally a different experience from other losses. I can speak authoritatively from my own experience, as in the last 4 years I have lost a step-son, both my parents, one of my sisters, and yes, my daughter. There is simply no comparison, and if you have not gone through it, you cannot comprehend the difference. I could not, when my beloved wife lost her oldest son Sean, at the end of 2007. I knew Sean well, loved him dearly, had been his step-father for nearly 20 years. I had held him when he cried, knew as much of him as any parent could of a teenager who had grown up. And still, it was a qualitative difference when Alysia died.

What I am saying is that the common notions of healing and acceptance don't cover the right ground: they are orthogonal to the pain, a separate part of the Venn diagram.

(If you are interested in a couple of different views of death and dying and grieving, I highly recommend Pema Chodron's book, "When Things Fall Apart" and also "A Year to Live", by Steven Levine. When my stepson Sean died, I found work in those books that I could take on to understand myself better. I have returned to them many times since.)

I have been having harder days, now that we have begun our Christmas preparations, always a special time for family, and one of Alysia's favorite times of the year, a time to be with family and connections. Alysia is very present in my life, as are my Mom and Dad. But just because the times are harder doesn't imply that I am not accepting of the reality of my life: sometimes accepting reality can be quite painful. When Ramesh Balsekar's son died, a disciple informed the father, who dropped to the ground weeping. The stunned acolyte stammered, "Master, haven't you told us that this is all illusion? Why do you weep?" The master turned gently to the man, and answered, "Yes, this is indeed all illusion. And this is the most painful part." Illusory or not, accepting or not, pain is there. I believe we must accept the pain as well as the joy, with the knowledge and understanding that it all ends eventually.

And moving forward? Towards what? We are in the day today, I am who I am today, my pain and my joys are real now. To believe that acceptance will come tomorrow is to NOT live today, with whatever is here. I have spent much of the last 40 years learning to be present, and I thank whatever deities there are that I did so: I think that otherwise, the pain would have unhinged me (further, OK?). Same for Joy: losing 2 children, less than 3 years apart, and she's still standing. Why? Preparation in the form of meditation, therapy, whatever you want to call it. We are sometimes miserable, often happy, excited by our children, loving both the living and the dead, just making it through. So don't worry when I get a little dark: it's just another part of me, needing expressing.

At the end of the summer, I went to a retreat at the Omega Institute, in Rhinebeck, NY. I had discovered that my grief had begun to harden, to stagnate. I really have no other words for the feeling of stiffness in my metaphorical heart, my 3rd chakra, so that'll have to do. Eventually I figured out that I wanted to do some type of retreat, but had no idea where or when. My wife asked me what type of retreat I thought would be good for me, and I answered, "Music and silence." The next day, an email link from Deva Premal and Miten (singers and writers of wonderful mantra music) led me to a weekend retreat of chanting and silence.

I sang, I danced, I chanted, I did everything but sleep for 3 days (well, OK, I did sleep a little.) It was one of the most intense, painful, hopeful, joyful, special times. At some point in that wonderful, magical time, I realized that I would always have the pain of losing my daughter in my heart. At the same time, I understood that this wouldn't block the way for me to have a wonderful life: I could go forward with both feelings simultaneously, embracing them both, however painful it was. This was both the beginning of my healing, and of my acceptance. But it also was the beginning of understanding that the pain would never really leave, even if there were days that I would pay little attention to it, for there is a piece of me that I willingly gave up, and now can never reclaim. So all joy is tempered by the knowledge of my loss. And all hardship is also tempered by the understanding that I can survive regardless.



Love to all, Yogi

Out of the Mouth of Babes, Part 2

So, we're driving somewhere, me, my wife and our daughter, when we hear piping up from the back seat,

"You know what I want? A Brazilian blow job."

"Uhhhhhh..OK? What's that, honey?"

"That's where they do some fancy hair-drying thing to make your hair all cool."

"Right. Got it. Brazilian blow OUT."

"Is there a difference?"

It means something different when >I< say it, that's for sure.

Out of the Mouth of Babes, Part 1

So, we're sitting at the dinner table,  finishing up, when our daughter announces, "When I grow up, I want a condom."

Crickets.

Finally, I ask, "What do you want to do with a condom, honey?"
"Oh, decorate it the way I want to, get some furniture, a dog, have all my own stuff."
"Oh, you mean a >condo
"Yeah, won't it be great!"

Yes, darling, it really will be. But I'll miss the Gracie Allen moments.

Good days, and Bad Days

The path of grief is not straight, nor does every person walk it the same way. Some days are easier, others difficult.
Today, we bought Xmas decorations. Alysia always loved the decorating of the house and tree for the Fall holidays, it didn't matter which one: Christmas, Thanksgiving, Hannukah, whatever. Presents, she loved indeed. and I loved giving them to her.
And now that is no more. and I still decorate, and I still buy presents, and I'm sure I'll be OK, eventually, but today is a Bad Day.
I'll talk to you all soon.

Look! Cats! And Dogs!

Well, while I try to get the pictures of Susanna and Provence together, here are a couple of shots of the other residents of Casa de los Muertes.

First, please meet Gracie Anne Whitesocks. Don't be fooled by the pose, she's not really thinking.

Gracie

Next is Memo, senior cat present. She inherited the title from Gus, who is no longer with us in body.

Don't mess with me.

Now, the youngest member of the menagerie, Seymore Catz

I'm not sleeping, I'm planning an ADVENTURE!

And finally, though not completely, Tucker the Australian Cattle Dog, with Pi (3.14 times a normal cat.)

We're not related, just buddies.

 Not present during this photo shoot were Nyx, the queen of the night, and Oliver, the dog with no brain.

Now that I've figured out how to add photos to the blog, next time should be easier, right? RIGHT?

We can hope.

Stay well, peeps.

Am I a Sick Puppy, or what?

So, there's this story in the news about a man whose mother's ashes were stolen from his car by mistake.

http://www.ktla.com/news/landing/ktla-stolen-ashes-woodland-hills,0,7165807.story

My first thought was to call them and offer some of our children's ashes. You know, because we have extra.

My second thought, and the one my wife came up with as >her< first thought when I told her about this, and she stopped laughing at my first thought, was that we still have some of her father's ashes, would that be OK?

We're obviously in serious need of help.

I still think it's funny.

Interlude: Susanna meets the Pacific Ocean

While I finish more posts about our trip to Provence, here's part one about an old friend.

Way back on 1968, while we were living in Italy, my parents bought a boat. Typically for my father (my adoptive father: my biological dad had died 4 years before, and my mother had remarried in 1967), the boat was beautiful and seriously impractical. That was my dad to a tee: always the esthetics mattered most.

Susanna was (and is) a gorgeous wooden sailboat, built in Venice the year I was born, 1957, at the D'este shipyards from a Laurent Giles design. If you are a wooden boat fanatic (there are no other types, from what I know) you will know who and what I'm talking about. The rest of you should just understand that it is meaningful to us weirdos, kind of like owning an original Carol Shelby Cobra. She's 48 feet overall and 10 1/2 feet wide. Supermodel thin, that is; almost anorexic. She's also deep, at 7 feet 9 inches of draft, and the combination makes for a couple of things. First, she's fast: we've legitimately seen 9+ knots, which is Usain Bolt speed for a wooden. Second, she loves to dip her rails under any serious wind, making life somewhat wet for all aboard. Third, she's totally the wrong boat for a family, unless you figure that the 2 boys (my brother and I) would sleep up front with the anchor chain, and everyone else gets a 1/2 twin-size bunk. Which we did.

You just kind of get used to it, and we sailed her all over the Med until 1973 or so, when we shipped her to the US. My parents had split up by this time, and my mom wanted to sail. (Although the marriage lasted less than 5 years, they remained best friends and frenemies to the end of their lives last year.) My mom and occasionally my dad sailed the east coast for the next 35 years, until shingles put an end to Mom's summer sailing. I was an occasional guest, mostly for races: the boat was too cramped both physically and emotionally for me to spend a lot of time on her. But my brother loved it, and went many, many times.

When Mom died, she left the boat to the three of us brothers, two of whom (me and our older brother) gave our share to YB (I don't have his permission to use his name yet.) The reason is that, while any boat is a hole in the water into which you throw money, a wooden boat is also the nautical equivalent of a Brazilian mistress: demanding, exciting and highly impractical. And OB and I just couldn't deal, each for our own reasons. So YB ended up with the boat. Which was fine with him, he loves her and couldn't wait to bring her out to SoCal and go sailing. Which he did, and here are the pictures to prove it.

So Susanna is now in her third ocean. We'll see how long she can stay: the area isn't great for cruising, in that there are few destinations nearby, and long trips up and down the West coast are or can be a real ordeal. But for now, she's in Ventura, and we've already been down to Catalina and back, and it was a great trip.

Pastis

Well, it turns out that sleeping through church bells is harder when you haven't been up for 24+ hours. Last night's sleep was, shall we say, compromised by the incessant "tolling of the iron bell" (as Roger Waters once called it, and that is what they sound like), and so we didn't get up for the Monday market outside our front door particularly early.
But soon enough, we found our way the block and 1/2 down onto the main street, which was now filled with stalls and people, from one end to the other. We took one look at the chaos, and decided that we needed more coffee. But when we sat down, I noticed that the man next to us, middle-aged, good-looking-in-a-"I'm a typical french farmer"-way, had a glass of rosé and some pastis.
Now, I'm a big fan of pastis, and ouzo and all such anise-flavored liqueurs, a taste I acquired when I was a teen-ager in Greece, during the summer I turned 16. I spent a good portion of it working in a boatyard on the island of Syros, and everyday when we finished, the whole crew went to the bar for drinks and meze (snacks). I discovered that I had a huge tolerance for alcohol delivered in this form, which isn't actually great until you learn to handle it, which took a while. But once I did, it became my competitive drink of choice. Remember the scene at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark, where Karen Allen is drinking with the Russian soldier, and drinks him under the table, only to get up and go back to work as if nothing happened? (I heart me some Karen Allen.) That's me. So, don't challenge me, OK? Or you'll be tasting black licorice in your sleep.
ANYWAY, I ordered a pastis, Joy got some coffee, and we watched the show for a while. Amazing what a little alcohol in the morning does to your disposition.
Eventually we went browsing through the stalls, admiring the cheeses, the cured meats, the handbags, the leather goods, the fresh vegetables, just an amazing amount of things to look at and touch and talk about. I keep trying to use the French I remember, and the stall owners are great about helping me out. It is a fact of French life, apparently, that everything comes with a lesson, an explanation or some conversation, and because I'm in the right frame of mind (i.e. not in a hurry), this seems wonderful.
We gather enough goodies for lunch, and head back to the apartment with some salami, some brie and banon cheeses, bread, ham, olives and wine, and just enjoy the shit out of it.
Lunch over, we head out to see what there is to see, and end up in a little town called Beaumes-de-Venice, which literally means "Canals of Venice". Except that here it doesn't, as Beaumes in Provence means "caves", like for storing wine, and "Venice" refers to the old name of Provence, Comtat Vennaissin, or the country of the Popes. Oh well, it's so pretty no matter what it's called, and we drive and stare.
We stop for a short wine tasting at a local vineyard, where Marina, the proprieteur, chats with us about our trip and her recent 6-week tour of the US. She's really fun, mid-30's and so excited about their wines; she and her husband have owned the vineyard for about 5 years, and are changing the way muscat (sweet) wines are made here, so that they have more acid, rather than the cloying sweetness that is usual for this type of wine. We buy a bottle, and head out, smiling.
A couple of hours driving later, we're back at the house, and take a break before dinner. It seems that that's all we do, isn't it? Eat and drive, eat and drive, and drink more wine.
Yep. That's why we're here.

Location:Bedoin

Sunday is funday

Since we got to bed not too early (ahem, midnight) we slept in until around 10AM, which is unheard of at home: the dogs and cats just won't put up with laziness like this. Well, fuck 'em, we're on vacation and the dogs are at dog camp, being treated like kings, I mean, come on, treats, walks, someone to THROW THE BALL, NOW, HUH, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!!

Excuse me.

Anyway, we get up and fart around figuring out what we want to do, which is go get coffee and croissants, but it's a bit late, so let's just get dressed and head out to explore, but look, there's a cafe so let's sit down and

slow down, (phew)

and have the coffee and realize that we're in a foreign country, we have no plans, no one to meet, just the two of us at whatever pace we want to set.

OK, then. Wow. Relax, what a concept.

Looking through our guide book, the increasingly indispensable Cadogan guide to Provence, we find that there's a market and some antiques over in Isle Sur la Sourge, about 20 minutes from us. Want to go? Sure, even though we really don't get the whole "fill your house with the stuff other people don't want, especially if it's old and kind of beat up", but we love to look at it and chose not to take it home.
Whatever floats our boat, you know?
Anyway, we head over, using maps instead of GPS, so that we can begin to learn the area, and drive through this incredible countryside, just beginning to show autumn in the browning leaves of the grapevines. Bright blue sky, warm and happy, we drive the narrow roads, pulling over as necessary to let the impatient few past.
Eventually, we reach the town, and park in a sort of random mass of vehicles. Serious, people, lineups aren't your strong suit, I get it, but still, it looks like you all spilled hot coffee on your laps and then just got out. So we just pull in and stop, and get out and walk to the market, which is almost over, as it's now 12:30 and they end at 1, but who cares, we're here to enjoy , which we do, browsing among the sellers of linens, and trinkets and antiques and Jesus there's a lot of stuff!
Are you hungry? I am.
So we find a place that has a table left, even though by the time we get there it's almost 2, and they're running on empty, but a kind waitress takes pity on us, and we sit in the shade and order wine and salads and just take in the town. (Pictures are coming, I swear.)
Lunch over, and the wine finished, we head out for more exploring, and poke our heads in random shops. Many aren't open (it's Sunday, after all), but some are and we enjoy looking at bunches of stuff we don't usually see, linens, and soaps and wood bric-a-brac, and tourist crapola, but DIFFERENT crapola that at home, so it's fun. Joy finds a table cloth that she takes a fancy to, so we buy that, and a few trinkets for loved ones, and eventually find out way to an ice-cream shop that makes unreal apricot and lemon sorbet, and then sit by the stream and watch the ducks dive for invisible fish and tidbits. Soon, we head back, and unload our loot, and take a nap. (That's when I posted the previous post.)(I don't nap)(usually.)

After nap and showers, we're ready for more, so we go out looking for dinner! Now, I don't speak French, really I don't. I'm fluent in Italian, because I grew up in Rome, and kept it up over the years, so I have a good accent and a firm grasp of the grammar, but French I have to fake. Well, I seem to be doing OK, because I can make myself understood pretty well, and it gives me such a thrill to be able to ask directions or about the menu, or really, anything. It's really cool, and I'm happy that I had all those French lessons in high school, even though I hated them at the time. But it's been 35+ years! Anyway, we stumble though the menu at a lovely outdoor restaurant call Le Gouses D'ail, or the Garlic Cloves. We eat and drink and eat some more and drink some more until we're stuffed and drunken again, but this time the car is already at home, so we stagger home, and sleep it off, and next thing you know, it's 6:30AM, and the church bells next door are ringing, every freaking HOUR, twice.

WTF is with THAT, anyway? Is it really neccesary to ring the chimes twice each hour? Plus the little Bong on the 1/2s? I've got to find someone to ask. Maybe tomorrow.

Location:Bedoin, France and Environs