Life of Wry

Rainbows are a little hard to capture with my not-so-mighty cell phone camera, but perhaps you can make out some of the color that bombarded us from all sides on our walk this morning.

Rainbows to the right of us, rainbows to the left of us, rainbows overhead.  That’s a lot of good luck happening..

Summer walks along Putah Creek are the greatest, really….  very warm this particular early morning, the sprinklers were on and they were insanely refreshing to walk through.  And then all the flippin’ rainbows.  I swear..

My dad died September 27, 2000, almost 11 years ago.

I just spent an hour or so looking back over a number of letters that we exchanged through the years.  I (of course) saved all the letters and notes I ever received from him.  Recently, my mom passed along a huge bunch of my letters that she’d kept, plus those my dad’s secretary had in the office files.  It’s quite a collection.  And I guess the reason I have all of this is so, on days like this, I can look back through it and remember who my dad was and what he meant to me. The letters form a telling and fascinating narrative.

It’s not a perfect story.  The 50s and 60s were an interesting time for dads–behaviors that were socially acceptable then (or tolerated, anyway) are not as socially acceptable today.  It’s probably not entirely fair for us, as adults, to look back at our parents’ parenting through a modern prism.  Some of it seems indefensible, some of it seems contextually justified.  Certainly parental roles were different back then.  Over the years I’ve worked to fit all the pieces together, to understand the times, to try to understand my parents’ relationship, to try to understand who I became as a result. It’s all a bit of a mixed bag.  But mostly, I’m very grateful for my dad.  There were many things I truly loved about him.

In my rummaging through the files this afternoon, I also came upon the comments I made at my dad’s memorial service.  And figured, as long as I’m blogging, I may as well transcribe the comments here, since until now, they’ve just been handwritten notes on binder paper.  So, here goes… comments delivered to about 300 friends and family members gathered at the Neighborhood Church on October 4th, 2000:

As a kid, I always thought of my dad as a larger than life guy.  He had an enormous back and huge shoulders and I remember it took me a long time to meet his challenge of getting my arms all the way around his trunk.  He was like a giant bear.  I even have sweet memories of him scratching his back along door jams, like a bear would. 

He always commanded a lot of attention–professionally, socially, and within our family.  I had a sense that he was very important.  In stature and in life, he seemed, to me, a giant.

As large and commanding a figure as he was, he was not a macho guy.  He was a person of quiet authority.  He didn’t huff and puff, didn’t raise his voice, he wasn’t aggressive or arrogant.  As Karen Hesse wrote in her card, there was a gentleness about him.

He always greeted my friends enthusiastically. He was eager to make people feel comfortable and welcome.  He was funny and genial with store clerks, waiters and complete strangers.  People liked him, liked being around him.  He’d make them laugh and feel relaxed.  He was willing to be solicitous, to be, or even, appear vulnerable.  Many wrote of his kindness.  One person who worked closely with him his entire career said he’d never heard him say anything bad about anyone.  And I think that’s probably true.  People really loved and admired him.

With us, he was generous.  To him, his role was clear: he was the provider and his job was to ensure his kids’ needs were covered.  No matter what we did or how much we needed, he was there.  

Dad, I have a few things I’d like to say to you:

– I’ll always appreciate your love for my son, Peter, though you only knew him for his first two years.  I loved talking to you on the phone and answering all your questions about his latest feats. He really loved the bory bory game. Thanks for playing that with him. 

– I’ll always remember how, on long road trips in the family wagon, whenever we’d ask, “when will we get there?,” your response was always, “six more turns,” no matter where we were.

– I’ll will always know that, had you not tripped on that piece of seaweed, and tumbled horribly in the hard sand, you’d have beaten me in the Great 100-Yard Dash on that beach in Mexico.  Even though I was at the peak of my sprinting prowess!

– I’ll remember our mutual love of the Dodgers and how we always ate breakfast together before anyone else got up, and read and discussed the sports section, but how you always let me read it first. 

– I’ll never forget your surgeon-like precision as you went to work on a whole baked chicken.  You ate slowly, meticulously, and left a clean, perfect bone, without ever touching it with your fingers.  You approached everything slowly and methodically, whether it was eating a bony meal, opening a present or telling a story.

– I’ll never forget your hilarious drawings in Pictionary.  You couldn’t draw a thing, of course, but you played, and you’d tap your pencil over and over next to your drawings, looking at us so hopefully and insistently, willing us to decipher your impossibly small and abstract etchings, but we couldn’t respond because we were laughing so hard.  

– I’ll remember always your beautiful singing voice and your annual Christmas Eve duet, Tell Me Why, with Betty.  And the way you hunched over the piano keys, playing one of two signature pieces–that sort of Vaudevillian number and Clair de Lune.  And the way you danced with Aunt Ellie, never moving a muscle, but spinning her all around the dance floor.  And your killer slice backhands and wicked serves in both tennis and ping pong, slyly delivered and impossible to return. You had many talents!

– I loved the funny notes you sent to me after I’d moved out, when I was in college, and when I was living abroad.  They were short, they were sweet, and they always included your signature smiley face–the one with the big hollow eyes.  

– I also loved that whenever we traveled someplace new, you couldn’t wait to ask for directions.  And never just once.  You’d get second and third opinions, and serial instructions.  We go from corner to corner, getting updated directions from new sets of strangers.  You had no trouble leaning out the window, asking people on the street, or in cars next to us in intersections.  You loved this.  It was so funny.   

– I’ll always remember how you loved chocolate.  How we could always find stashes in your closet, in your drawers, or in the trunk of your car.  You harvested our Halloween candy before we understood where it had all gone.  I remember Aunt Ellie and Uncle Bud delivering a giant 1′ by 2′ candy bar to you in the hospital once, and how you hoarded it afterward.  And I especially remember the 10-gallon vats of ice cream you brought home from 31-Flavors, your favorites: Pralines and Cream, and Rocky Road.    

– I remember how in Junior High, I asked for help in coming up with a topic for an essay, and not only did you suggest reconnaissance satellites, but you dictated the entire paper to me while I wrote as fast as I could to get it all down.  I got a bad grade on it, not because it wasn’t good, but because I obviously didn’t write it.  Seemed like a good idea at the time. 

– I remember endlessly practicing your signature, thinking it was the most sophisticated, dignified signature ever.  I was so in awe of you.  

In closing, I just want to thank my dad for being funny, nice and smart.  His most important goal was to enure that we kids got a good start in life and that we’d be ok.  He supported us and he was generous.  Dad, thanks for giving us the gift of a privileged life; you believed that was your role and you fulfilled it. 

And that was what I said.  Lots of others spoke, and then the pianist played Clare de Lune.

Here is the memorial bench that Jim, Peter and I had installed across the street just after my dad died. It sits beneath a eucalyptus tree, oriented toward our house.  The picture way above is a close up of the plaque.

I know there’s a story here to write… something about the trains that roll through town, or maybe about taking a walk on a quiet morning and seeing this train in the ear-lie mornin’ light…

I know many have been written, but I just know there are more train stories to be told.  A challenge awaits.. if I get a moment..

For now, just a picture.

There’s this one…

And then there’s this one…

I am having decision-making issues today.  Couldn’t decide which one I liked better for picture-of-the-day, so am including both.  My blog, I make the decisions.  Or not.

Point is, June 17th is a beautiful, clear, 89 degree day.  I think summer has hit its stride.

Very excited.  Got invited to sub in a bridge group tonight.  Hadn’t played since Peter was born.  This meant I had to get my Goren out.. had to go back and re-learn a whole bunch of bridge I’d forgotten in the intervening thirteen years.  A lot came back, and a lot didn’t, but it was extremely fun.  I’m going to have to figure out how to make this happen on a regular basis, I can tell.  Hmmm..

Here’s a practice hand I dealt myself.  I think I’d bid 1 heart and plan to jump on my next bid.

You?

Something I love: American Legion Post 77 baseball in the summer.

Just so you know what it is (because I didn’t, until a couple years ago)… American Legion Baseball is a baseball league sponsored by the American Legion for under 19-year olds, mostly guys who are in that period between high school and college.  American Legion is a veteran service organization.  Nationally, American Legion Baseball is an institution that’s been around since 1925.  The Yolo Post 77 baseball program has been around a long time, as well.  It draws some of the best players from high schools in Davis, Woodland, Winters and Esparto.  I could give you a better explanation, but that’s enough for my purpose here.  If you want to know more about the history, go here and for info about Yolo Post 77, go here.

Anyway.  Baseball?  Of course.  And ESPECIALLY baseball last night: a hot summer evening with a full moon rising.  Bruce Gallaudet told me they (the City of Woodland?) had spent the last year rebuilding Clark Field (on Beamer Street).  The result is a PERFECT and lush carpet of bright green grass, and dirt that is smooth, rich and dark around the base paths.  If you love the look of a sharply cut baseball field against a midnight blue sky with a giant globe hanging behind left-center, this was your night to be watching baseball.

I wasn’t scorekeeping, so could really go to work on a large pack of sunflower seeds.  It was also so hot last night, I was pounding bottles of ice water, and even dropping some down my back to stay cool.  That hot.

What a difference a week makes. Now bare feet and shorts are the default fashion choice.

Speaking of scorekeeping, Bruce told me I could scorekeep and report on some games this season (wheeee!).  That would be such a hoot.  After the game last night, I watched the reporters go out on the field to interview players and coaches. With recorders.  Now, really, how cool would that be?

By the way, if you’re a fan of local baseball, or just baseball in general, you have to read Bruce’s columns in the Enterprise (and soon his new blog).  His baseball reporting is a wonderful and very readable mix of game facts and storytelling; his vast knowledge and completely palpable love of the game always come through.   He also gets my award for funnest person to hang out with at a baseball game (no offense to my husband).  He’s my go-to for questions like, “Would you call that a hit or an error?,” “Was that an earned run?” “What’s the infield fly rule again?” and on and on.   Can’t wait to read his column today.

I don’t want to overly caricaturize the fans, or turn this into some lame imitation of a Rockwellian cover for the Saturday Evening Post–it’s very hard to write about Americana without sounding cliche-ic–but I have to say, part of what makes these games fun is the crowd, a large percentage of whom are old guys.

Their bleacher chatter is completely different than the supportive encouragement heard at little league games, though far gentler than the rude, beer-driven heckling at major league games.  These guys are not mean spirited, but they don’t hold back either; they’re there to see good baseball and they let their boys know it in a direct, if not paternal, way.

Not to be patronizing, but having all the old veterans in the stands, and the old women in the snack shack, gives the experience a bit of a romantic, era-gone-by texture, like dropping into someone else’s historical time zone.  Sitting among a bunch of old timers in high rise bleachers in classic, mid-town Clark Field, it’s not at all difficult to transport yourself back in time, which I did quite a bit of last night.

What also made it fun, was that Peter was serving as Post 77’s bat boy last night. Our huge just-about 13-year old (weighing in at 100.7 lbs) was so shrimpy next to those guys.. the size differential was kind of alarming, but definitely cute (if you’re the mom).  That’s Peter to the far right.

Being a bat boy is one of those sweet life experiences.   Cue little guy in the company of big guys:  they gave him lots of fist bumps and high fives, included him in their player huddles, let him practice with them before the game, and made him sweep up at the end.  Best of all was probably the dugout camaraderie.  Always lots to learn hanging out in that den of testosterone…  about the game, about strategy, about team dynamics, about guy interaction.  There was, as always, much raunchy language, as well.  According to Peter last night, “No.. no new swear words, but combinations I hadn’t heard before,” (he said, seeming quite pleased).

Anyway.. again, not to overly romanticize, but if you’re a baseball playing kid–or a fan of a baseball playing kid–it’s exactly as summer’s supposed to be.

Aka, Professor P. Victor Peterson, aka Uncle Vic.  The closest thing I have to my dad.

So enjoyed our visit today.

Photo credit: Aunt Joy!

I thought it was really cool that Peter wanted me to play catch with him today.  He offered to help me with my form.  Here he’s giving me a demonstration.  I took a whole bunch of pictures at various stages of the throw.  I’m studying now.

We hoofed it out to Winters this moorning for a great breakfast at the Putah Creek Cowfe with our friends the O’Hanleigh-Cowvins.

One of my favorite local artists, really one of Cowlifornia’s best, is Phil Gross, whose paintings cowver the walls of this charming cowfe, including the cowlorful one, above.  It’s no Moona Lisa, but it’s a nice cow portrait nonetheless.

Love our tradition of going out for Sunday brunch, especially with friends on such a nice day.  Conversation with this amoocable and politicowly savvy group was stimoolating and amoosing, as ever.  Peter, Jocelyn and Cowlea drew pictures and there was lots of laughing–moosic to my ears.  The whole moorning was fun for both the adults and the cuds.

And as usual, the food was moothwatering.

Can’t think of a way to end this grazefully, so will just sign off.  Hope you didn’t find it too cowrazy and immooture.

Seriously, these are the prettiest flowers ever. They look like paper.  They grow down at the arboretum, on Lake Mrak.  They are big, 5-6″ in diameter and seem to hold their blossom for a long time.  They bloom every year in about late May.  Anyone know what they are?