I got a letter on Sunday from my father. You don’t normally receive mail on Sundays, unless it’s been mis-addressed and a neighbor has had to bring it to you, as was the case here. Dad says his call to me two weeks ago had been from the ER. He says (and this is where I remind readers that unfortunately you cannot believe anything he says) that he’d had a stroke and his doctor told him he’d flat-lined for four minutes and was dead. Before the call, that is.
Dad’s an atheist, and he made a point to say there were no bright lights, no relatives waiting for him. “Dead is dead,” he writes. Then he says he checked himself out of the hospital and went home. Okay. Right.
When I relayed this story to my mother, she said – uncharacteristically for her - that it was no surprise that no one was waiting to meet him on the other side.
So I’m writing a new short story about my father. I started it before I got the letter. The letter just gives me that much more incentive. I’m inspired by a combination of subject matter I know and find interesting, and the thought that maybe this will be therapeutic for me.
On a different front, a couple of days ago, I had an interesting conversation with my five year old after I picked her up from daycare. It went something like this (with an acknowledgement to Kate, whose dialogs with her son are so nicely recorded in her blog).
“Mom, who did you vote for?”
“For President?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, hon, I voted for Kerry this time.”
“Oh. Well. I just want President Bush to make some castles. Because there are ZERO castles in the world.”
“In America, or in the world?”
“In the world.”
“Hmm. Yeah, I wonder why he hasn’t made any castles.”
“I don’t know, but I need a castle for when I grow up because I’m going to live in a castle, and only poor people can come visit me there. And I’ll give them some of my gold.”
“How much gold will you give them?”
“Well, for one person, I’ll give six gold pieces. And then for another person, I’ll give six gold pieces, and for another person, I’ll give him six gold pieces.”
“So you’ll give everyone six gold pieces?”
“Yeah. Unless if they already have some money, then I’ll only give them one.”
“How many gold pieces will you have?”
“Oh, about five thousand.”
“That’s pretty good.”
“Yeah.”
I think about how we all just want someone to build us a castle to live in. I think about how my dad has been telling me his whole life all about the castle that is being built for him.
Friday, November 19, 2004
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
A phone call from Dad
My father called me around 10:15 Saturday night. We spoke for about half an hour. It was the longest conversation we’ve had since two years ago, when I went out to visit relatives in Colorado and saw him for about 45 minutes. It was really good to talk to him.
He said he was calling to tell me that he loved me. I waited with some anxiety for the next sentence, but it wasn’t anything about suicide or my grandmother (his mother) dying – the only reasons I could think of for him to call with such a message.
He said that he’d sold the property where he’d had his pawnshop and they were going to tear it down and make a dialysis center there. He said he wanted to call all his kids just to let them know that he loved them and he wasn’t sure what had gone wrong with his life and everything but that he’d sold the property and were going to use it to make a dialysis center. And they’d sold the property. And they were going to tear down the building and make a dialysis center.
Did I mention that he was four sheets to the wind?
After we spoke, I typed furiously on a keyboard at great length about the conversation and about my feelings for my father. The next night, I wrote more about it. In fact, I’m thinking that this is as good a spark as any for me to work on that collection of stories (or even – dare I say it? – a novel) I’d been toying with doing about Dad.
It’s funny that I should get this call now, only a couple of weeks after my birth father had sent me an email checking in to see how I was doing. What a contrast between the two men. My birth father, whom I first met two years ago, is very humble and careful about his relationship with me. He’s never done anything to harm me, and yet he almost acts like he doesn’t deserve to get to close to me. (“Pshaw!” I say to that.)
My father, on the other hand, has done an amazing amount of damage to the health and well being of the people around him, and yet the closest he comes to remorse is a whiny self-pitying litany of drunken excuses.
Hmm. That sounded a little harsh, didn’t it? Yes, it did. And I’m probably the person in my family who was least hurt by him.
I know that alcoholism has a lot to do with Dad’s inability to face reality. In fact, one of the many interesting parts of our conversation Saturday night was when I suggested that he shouldn’t call my sister until he was actually sober, and he said, “You may be right. But I don’t have a problem with alcohol.”
And I said, “Dad, you are the epitome of an alcoholic. I can’t remember the last time I saw you when you hadn’t been drinking.”
Damn, that felt good. He’s been drinking my whole life and that was the first time I’d confronted him about it.
He denied that he drank I pointed out that denial was all part of the disease, too, but I don’t think he heard me.
He said, “I don’t drink. I’m on medication.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” I said.
He said, “Well, I just wanted to call and tell you that I love you."
"I love you too, Dad, " I said. Because of course, in spite of everything else, I do.
"Well, okay," he said. "And I just wanted to let you know that they sold the building you saw when you came out, and they’re going to tear it down and build a dialysis center there.”
“So I hear.” I told him.
He said he was calling to tell me that he loved me. I waited with some anxiety for the next sentence, but it wasn’t anything about suicide or my grandmother (his mother) dying – the only reasons I could think of for him to call with such a message.
He said that he’d sold the property where he’d had his pawnshop and they were going to tear it down and make a dialysis center there. He said he wanted to call all his kids just to let them know that he loved them and he wasn’t sure what had gone wrong with his life and everything but that he’d sold the property and were going to use it to make a dialysis center. And they’d sold the property. And they were going to tear down the building and make a dialysis center.
Did I mention that he was four sheets to the wind?
After we spoke, I typed furiously on a keyboard at great length about the conversation and about my feelings for my father. The next night, I wrote more about it. In fact, I’m thinking that this is as good a spark as any for me to work on that collection of stories (or even – dare I say it? – a novel) I’d been toying with doing about Dad.
It’s funny that I should get this call now, only a couple of weeks after my birth father had sent me an email checking in to see how I was doing. What a contrast between the two men. My birth father, whom I first met two years ago, is very humble and careful about his relationship with me. He’s never done anything to harm me, and yet he almost acts like he doesn’t deserve to get to close to me. (“Pshaw!” I say to that.)
My father, on the other hand, has done an amazing amount of damage to the health and well being of the people around him, and yet the closest he comes to remorse is a whiny self-pitying litany of drunken excuses.
Hmm. That sounded a little harsh, didn’t it? Yes, it did. And I’m probably the person in my family who was least hurt by him.
I know that alcoholism has a lot to do with Dad’s inability to face reality. In fact, one of the many interesting parts of our conversation Saturday night was when I suggested that he shouldn’t call my sister until he was actually sober, and he said, “You may be right. But I don’t have a problem with alcohol.”
And I said, “Dad, you are the epitome of an alcoholic. I can’t remember the last time I saw you when you hadn’t been drinking.”
Damn, that felt good. He’s been drinking my whole life and that was the first time I’d confronted him about it.
He denied that he drank I pointed out that denial was all part of the disease, too, but I don’t think he heard me.
He said, “I don’t drink. I’m on medication.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” I said.
He said, “Well, I just wanted to call and tell you that I love you."
"I love you too, Dad, " I said. Because of course, in spite of everything else, I do.
"Well, okay," he said. "And I just wanted to let you know that they sold the building you saw when you came out, and they’re going to tear it down and build a dialysis center there.”
“So I hear.” I told him.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
It's November
Okay, so it's been November, but I have a time management / denial issue, which is another blog entry unto itself.
November means NaNoWriMo month, when tens of thousands of insane...uh, I mean motivated...people aspire to, and in many cases actually successfully write, a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.
As they say on their web site, "It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly. Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down."
For the second year in a row, my neighbor will be participating and I will probablynot be participating.
That's to say that it's one of those things I'd like to do (sort of) and think I should do (sort of) but in all reality, I believe the world is better served by me concentrating on living in the moment and working on things like poetry, short stories, my grandmother's oral history and feeding my family.
Maybe next year.
Or maybe this year.
But probably not until next year. At the soonest.
Could you do this? Would you?
Tomorrow I'll figure out what psychic void I'm trying to fill with Halloween Candy. And I'll talk about the Candy Fairy.
But for now, I have this goal of > 6 hrs of sleep a night, and my pillow calls.
November means NaNoWriMo month, when tens of thousands of insane...uh, I mean motivated...people aspire to, and in many cases actually successfully write, a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.
As they say on their web site, "It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly. Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down."
For the second year in a row, my neighbor will be participating and I will probablynot be participating.
That's to say that it's one of those things I'd like to do (sort of) and think I should do (sort of) but in all reality, I believe the world is better served by me concentrating on living in the moment and working on things like poetry, short stories, my grandmother's oral history and feeding my family.
Maybe next year.
Or maybe this year.
But probably not until next year. At the soonest.
Could you do this? Would you?
Tomorrow I'll figure out what psychic void I'm trying to fill with Halloween Candy. And I'll talk about the Candy Fairy.
But for now, I have this goal of > 6 hrs of sleep a night, and my pillow calls.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Voted
I voted. Did you?
My 10 year old asked me yesterday whom I was going to vote for. I was reminded of a satirical comment I heard on the radio last week. I think it's actually a bumper sticker, and that it goes something like: "John Kerry: He'll Do."
We talked about how it's important to respect the President, and that he'd been faced with some very difficult circumstances. I told her that I didn't agree with his choices, but that he'd done the best he could.
She said, "The best he could? Are you kidding me?"
As liberal as her school is, only one kid in her 4th grade class admitted that his parent were going to vote for President Bush. Everyone else has had nothing but severe criticism of him - criticism that I'm sure they'd overheard from their parents.
My first political memory was when Nixon resigned. I was a little younger than R. My father made sure I watched the broadcast. Otherwise, my first political memory would have been the Iran hostage crisis, many years later.
I'm amazed that my kids are aware of who the President is, and who's running against him today.
My five year old expresses her political awareness a little more subtly, though.
What exactly was she was trying to convey by making two yellow jelly beans stand up on the table (one in each hand), and saying, "This is Bush." (holding up the right one briefly) and "This is Mrs. Bush" (hold up the left one briefly), and then making them "walk" up to either side of an Applebee's plastic cup, followed by a sly giggle. Hmmmmm....very profound, I'm sure.
My 10 year old asked me yesterday whom I was going to vote for. I was reminded of a satirical comment I heard on the radio last week. I think it's actually a bumper sticker, and that it goes something like: "John Kerry: He'll Do."
We talked about how it's important to respect the President, and that he'd been faced with some very difficult circumstances. I told her that I didn't agree with his choices, but that he'd done the best he could.
She said, "The best he could? Are you kidding me?"
As liberal as her school is, only one kid in her 4th grade class admitted that his parent were going to vote for President Bush. Everyone else has had nothing but severe criticism of him - criticism that I'm sure they'd overheard from their parents.
My first political memory was when Nixon resigned. I was a little younger than R. My father made sure I watched the broadcast. Otherwise, my first political memory would have been the Iran hostage crisis, many years later.
I'm amazed that my kids are aware of who the President is, and who's running against him today.
My five year old expresses her political awareness a little more subtly, though.
What exactly was she was trying to convey by making two yellow jelly beans stand up on the table (one in each hand), and saying, "This is Bush." (holding up the right one briefly) and "This is Mrs. Bush" (hold up the left one briefly), and then making them "walk" up to either side of an Applebee's plastic cup, followed by a sly giggle. Hmmmmm....very profound, I'm sure.
Monday, November 01, 2004
Where There's Smoke
One brief observation about Japan before bed:
* Many people smoke. I mean, sure, more people smoke there than smoke in my little cul-de-sac of the world, but even compared to the average amount of smokers in, say, Europe, these days (200 million plus), I'd say more people smoke per capita in Japan than outside of it. (And a quick Google search backed me up.)
Some restaurants have little "No Smoking" sections, but since they're not really divided in any way (except by a few feet of distance) from the rest of the nicotine-breathing diners, this really means, "Slightly Less Smoking." Did D. & I care? Not really. We were so happy to be there, on vacation, away from it all and (after the business part of the trip) alone together, I think we could have lost a finger and would have said, "Oh well, who cares?! We're in Japan!"
Except, on second thought, that's not entirely true - as a missing finger is a sign that you're with the Yukuza.
Although there's apparently a way to work around that, too.
What a world we live in.
* Many people smoke. I mean, sure, more people smoke there than smoke in my little cul-de-sac of the world, but even compared to the average amount of smokers in, say, Europe, these days (200 million plus), I'd say more people smoke per capita in Japan than outside of it. (And a quick Google search backed me up.)
Some restaurants have little "No Smoking" sections, but since they're not really divided in any way (except by a few feet of distance) from the rest of the nicotine-breathing diners, this really means, "Slightly Less Smoking." Did D. & I care? Not really. We were so happy to be there, on vacation, away from it all and (after the business part of the trip) alone together, I think we could have lost a finger and would have said, "Oh well, who cares?! We're in Japan!"
Except, on second thought, that's not entirely true - as a missing finger is a sign that you're with the Yukuza.
Although there's apparently a way to work around that, too.
What a world we live in.
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