Life of Wry

Uncle Bud was the star attraction today…

If I could ever remember stories, which I absolutely cannot, I’d share tales of Uncle Bud’s life that are pretty darn story-worthy. He has enjoyed a unique life characterized by seriously high level science and technology, an absolute devotion to family, a solid compass, patience, and a bit of mystery. He has a love of life’s simple and fine things–a room with a view, a perfectly aged wine, an elegant reach across the ocean, a player piano, art and books. I’ve always been in great awe of my uncle and slightly intimidated by what must be going on between his ears. He’s very understated and never seems judgmental, but the way he always chuckles off a comment without further elaboration makes me wonder what in the world does he think of me?

He currently enjoys several rounds of golf a week, even bent over as he is. He’s got his pals and a good cart. Mostly, he’s enjoying the company of my aunt Ellie and as much grandkid time as possible. He seems to be going strong for a 90-year-old guy.

Like I said, I am foggy on story details (which I’ll try to rectify). For now, some snips to give you a sense:

At 17 years of age, because he could fly an airplane and because it was 1941 and he was raring to serve his country, he was told to report to a US base in Burma (I believe) and it was up to him to figure out how to get there. His route was very circuitous and it took him three weeks, but he eventually arrived, ready for duty. When they learned that he was under age, they limited his assignments to non-combat missions. For example, if we were planning to bomb a bridge, Uncle Bud would be sent in in advance to “buzz” the bridge and clear it of civilians. Once cleared, our bombers would fly in to destroy the bridge. As I understand it. 

(This is a kid just six months older than Peter is now. I shudder.)

I’m not sure how long he remained in the service, but he did see combat, jumped out of lots of airplanes, spent weeks or months fleeing enemy territory on foot, maybe with other guys, maybe alone, and all kinds of other World War II stuff I’m uncertain about (which is why we need a better storyteller here).

After that, he went to Cal Tech, ended up with degrees (masters and PhD I think) in chemistry and worked in the oil business, based in Long Beach, for all of his career. May have owned an oil company, or at least a consultancy. He has patents for countless chemicals and chemical processes, though I can’t tell you much about those either. 

I also know he worked on the Spruce Goose and knew Howard Hughes pretty well, though I don’t know how that came to be or what, exactly, he did. I know it was significant.

He loves fine food and wine, travel, sailing, and like I said, still plays golf, but the center of his world are his two boys and now his three grandchildren. And of course my Aunt Ellie.

We were asked to write down a favorite memory of Uncle Bud for a commemorative book my cousin is compiling. I wrote about his dedication to family, the way he cared/cares for his kids–always treating them with respect, answering every question, paying unwavering attention to them. He would often sit with the kids at family gatherings, or hike with us, or just be around, because kids deserve to be treated like people… which isn’t always the way it was in the 50s and 60s.  He also cared dutifully and respectfully for the elders, in this case my grandparents (his parents-in-law).  He was the one going to the convalescent home daily to visit my grandma. Completely without fanfare; just did it because it was right.

I also wrote of his killer pate. Seriously. Killer.

He’s a very kind man who, as far as I ever observed, never spoke negatively about others. I suspect we are at opposite ends of the political spectrum, but I can’t remember ever hearing him speak negatively about that either.

I’m glad he got a big party for his 90th. He seemed genuinely touched.

Here are some shots:

First, an oldie….Uncle Bud and me on his boat, sailing to Catalina, circa 1972-3. He’d be in his mid-to-late-40s, I’m about 16. Looks like he’s steering with a tiller, which I can imagine he’d prefer to a wheel.)

Now, the party… here’s the cake:

Son #1, Bob:

Son #2, Eric:

Aunt Ellie, center, with mom and Betsy Bixby (yes, that Bixby):

Peter and his second cousin Kate (Eric and Staci’s oldest daughter and Uncle Bud’s oldest grandchild):

Me and Uncle Bud:

Out the window, sun setting on Alamitos Bay, the Naples part of Long Beach that has been Uncle Bud and Aunt Ellie’s home for over fifty years:

And vintage Uncle Bud:

As it turned out, it became a two-uncle sort of weekend. Our plans had been to fly down on Saturday to celebrate my Uncle Bud’s 90th birthday Sunday at a restaurant in Long Beach. And.. then my Uncle Vic passed away earlier in the week, and the plots they’d chosen so many years ago are in a cemetery that is also in Long Beach.  The timing was such that my Uncle Vic was transported to Long Beach right away and a graveside service was planned for Saturday. We were able to do a little rejiggering of our travel arrangements, and thus it became a weekend to celebrate them both.

Our day started at the cemetery, but it turned out it was the wrong one. A whole bunch of us made the same mistake and panic grew as we waited for everyone else to show up, but they didn’t. Calls were made, and a caravan of cars made a rushed drive across town to the correct cemetery just in time (actually, they waited for us to begin).

There were about thirty of us. Heidi’s cousin Don officiated and offered some truly lovely comments. A bunch of us shared thoughts, comments and stories after that. An American flag was presented to Heidi (at Aunt Joy’s direction) by a representative of the US armed services per some kind of protocol, which was moving. At the end, Aunt Joy asked everyone to join hands in a circle around the casket and express in one word what Uncle Vic meant to them. Thirty people, and just about thirty unique words, all of which described him perfectly. Gentle, kind, intelligent, friend… it was an inspiring and loving tribute and a wonderful thing to be a part of.

Following that, we all met over at Joe Jost’s, a bar and Long Beach institution that opened for business in 1924. It was a favorite of Uncle Vic’s and my dad’s.

We didn’t have the place to ourselves–it was packed with a thick Saturday afternoon lunch and football crowd, but we found enough space in back where the pool tables are which had room enough to spread out a little. Everyone drank beer and ate sausages on rye or pastrami or egg salad, or pickled eggs, peanuts or pretzels.  Same fare for the last ninety years. The bar is tended by about six guys who work fast and efficiently. It turned out to be a lot of fun, wandering around talking to everybody, continuing the stories. I really had a good time and was sure my uncle would have just loved knowing we honored him in that way.

The end of the day was at mom’s.

Since it was a Peterson year for Thanksgiving, Jim, Peter and I are going to be in the Bay Area with Frames for Christmas. Uncle Bud’s big birthday party on Sunday the 21st meant we’d be able to see a whole bunch of Petersons right before Christmas (bonus!) and so we planned a little pre-Christmas gathering of sibs and their families for Saturday night.

Matt made mom’s famous stew (and by famous, I mean it was her go-to meal for all of our growing up and as much a signature dish as a person, especially my mom, could have), which tasted instead like Matt’s famous stew, not mom’s, even though he made it exactly as she always did (or so he thought). But that’s the way that goes, right? We concluded that everyone has his/her own signature ingredients and signature preparations and only they can make their own famous dishes. Still, it was really good.

Mostly, though, the subject was Uncle Vic, more stories and other family news (gossip).  Here are a few other shots:

Mom talking to Michael:

Alexis, John and Jim:

Peter and Jim:

Michael and Matty:

The next morning in the shower I was thinking about all the uncles. I only had two: Uncle Vic and Uncle Bud. and they were both a huge part of my life from the get go; I love/loved them both dearly. When we tell stories about them (like when one dies and the other celebrates his 90th in the same week), we draw from a lifetime of experiences and memories. As we sat around last night, Peter and his three Peterson uncles, I wondered what stories he’d tell about them in 20 or 30 or 40 years.

I, uh, took this in the hotel bathroom… knowing Peter was next in the bathroom after me.. I thought I’d leave him a message on the mirror…

Thought we were in for a far ickier ordeal, but in the end, just your garden-variety, pre-Christmas, trafficky, rainy drive down I-5. It wasn’t pretty, but we made it without incident. Eight hours, including two stops and a lot of stop and go between Davis and Stockton. We had one moment of heart stopping drama, when, near the interchange of I-80 and I-5, we came to a full stop just feet away from the car in front of us, while the car behind us screeched to a stop within inches of our bumper.  The screech was long and loud and all we could do was sit and wait for the impact… but it didn’t come. After that just soggy, muddy, splashy driving… senses a bit more heightened.

I think Peter talked to Jim just about the whole way. I sat in back and played the same game of Spider over and over (maybe 30 or 40 times) until finally, at about PCH and Vermont, I won. Yay me. (And wow, it made the trip go fast.)

I am not going to report on what we ate because you do what you gotta do to get through it. Nothing is too greasy or too salty or too sweet. It’s I-5 after all.

**First world alert**

The smartphone gods finally got their shit together and, at last, Costco, as of last night, had the three new phones in the right configurations that we three Peterson/Frames have been waiting for: Jim, the white Samsung Galaxy S5, 16GB; Peter, the slate iPhone 6 with 16GB; and moi, the gold iPhone 6 with 64GB (Big Important Me).

So, without further ado, we made the 10-mile trip to the Woodland Costco and came home with three brand new phones.

FYI, Costco offers some pretty sweet deals, maybe even worth the three+ month wait. Well…definitely worth the wait if you’re the grownups, and not so much if you’re the indulged and entitled 16-year-old.

Suffer he did. And us, too, because for three months he wore his frustration all over his frustration-saturated sleeve, and it was WE who had to endure that most unattractive angst and frustration day-in and day-out (not to mention the frustration of three failed runs up to Costco when, over the phone, the person told us the much sought-after iPhones were in stock, when, in fact, we found, upon arrival, that they were most certainly not. Thanks guys.) I forget exactly why, but because we were changing carriers from Sprint to Verizon, we needed to do all three contracts at the same time, and wouldn’t you know, it was my 64gig iPhone, or unavailability thereof, that was holding up the parade. (“No, Peter, I do not want 16GB,” “No, Peter, not 128gigs either,” and “NO, Peter, I can NOT live with the iPhone 6+, have you seen those things?!, they’re RIDICULOUS”).

But…the long wait is over, we have our phones. We’re all set up, and data ported, and screen protected, and cased, and accessorized.

Yay.

This is my first picture with da new phone.

I’ve taken this shot many, many times before; it’s hard to resist. As you come out of the tunnel and approach the redwood grove, it just takes your breath away… even on a gloomy day like today.

Truth is, I don’t think the camera on the 6 is vastly different than the camera on the 4S, but the screen is a whole lot bigger so that makes it fun.

I have to say, I’m pretty pleased with the size, the speed, the better Verizon coverage, a brand new not-yet-abused battery, and tricks and features I can’t wait to learn about. Merry early Christmas to us.

Uncle Vic died in the wee hours this morning. I felt grateful to have been a part of his final day

I was present for my dad’s death, over fourteen years ago, but the circumstances were very different. He’d had a heart attack, nearly flatlined a couple of times before paramedics got him stabilized, then lay in a drug-induced coma in the hospital for two weeks. When life support was suspended, he passed away. He never knew what hit him.

Uncle Vic was lucid and engaged until the last day of his life, able to talk and be a part of decisions concerning his health and quality of life. It wasn’t really until yesterday that they used morphine to take the edge off. Best I can figure, morphine keeps pain at bay and neutralizes any agitation, fear, anxiety, anger. That said, I’m not sure he would have experienced much fear or anxiety. One never knows what is in another’s heart, but he seemed content and accepting. Even as he was completely aware of what was happening to him. That takes a strong dose of courage, I think. What inspires me is that, as a man of science and not particularly religious (whatever that means), he appeared settled, even before the morphine. In the final hours, were it not for breathing issues, I think he’d have been very comfortable. It was a peaceful scene.

I wrote yesterday about what turned out to be an unexpectedly long and wonderful day of love and support. Everybody knew Uncle Vic was in the final moments of his life. A small gathering of family members–those geographically close–were on hand (Aunt Joy, Heidi and her family, Duwayne and myself, and a visit from Aunt Jane and Jon). Throughout the day, neighbors and friends dropped in, too. Rain pounded outside most of the day, while inside, two fires roared, music played and everything was holiday festive.

It hardly gets better… to live a long, full, rich life, to have been healthy and active throughout, and to be home and comfortable in your final moments, surrounded by people who care about you… in his case, twin grandsons on either side holding his hands. There are a lot of ways to go out, but that seems pretty damn great.

I was reflecting a little on his life. A couple things struck me: he was surrounded for all his years by women with strong personalities (his mom, his sister, his wife and daughter) (and heck, let’s add his sister-in-law, though mom was not as regular a presence as those others).  He was a gentle, wise, steady presence–even-tempered, agreeable, understated. Always gentle. A counter balance to all the frenetic or dominant (?) energy around him. He didn’t compromise himself, but he was content to allow others to take charge, certain of his own compass, principles, needs.

I don’t think I will forget how he stood his ground on the hospital issue. Where it seemed a practical choice to transition to a hospital setting where care was a one-stop-shopping deal, he knew he did not want to go there and made it firmly clear. Thank god.

And it became really clear to me: he went out as he lived his life: with quiet but unwavering dignity. He reaped the respect of everyone around him, earned over a lifetime of consistently moral, ethical and kind regard for others.

It was a gift to be there… for all the emotional reasons–Uncle Vic is someone who’s been a cherished part of my life from the very start–but also for reasons related to process. I’ve considered doing volunteer work with hospice because there is so much about the process of death that I don’t understand (practically and spiritually) and I’ve thought it might be useful to try and understand it with eyes open, rather than otherwise. I’m not comfortable (at all) with the mythologies of religion’s approach to the subject and have wanted to be exposed to the realities when I am young enough to consider them in a more neutral state of mind.

I was fascinated by the hospice nurse’s information about what the body goes through and what to look for. I’m fascinated by the idea that Uncle Vic could hear us, even as he couldn’t respond in obvious ways. I imagine the morphine softens the experience, too, so you can face it, know you’re in process, but not fear it. Maybe that’s how it works. (Right? Anyone?)

I’m all over that. To anyone reading this: should I be so fortunate to reach old age in tact and of sound mind, my hope is to be home in pleasant surroundings; further surrounded by my people, warm love, music, stories and conversation. And enough morphine to take that edge off. I hope I have a smile on my face. This is my hope for everyone.

Thank you Uncle Vic for again being our wise counsel.

Here are a few photos to remember Uncle Vic by:

Here he’s 41, sitting in the living room at my grandparents’ house. The photo could have been taken on Christmas (looks so) and developed in January. Not sure if he’s snoozing or dealing with whatever that is on his lap.

He’s 90 here… and looks so much like my dad.

Here are a few shots taken with each of us John Peterson kids:

A blurry one with me (he’s 89 here):

With Jay:

With Chris and Matt at his 90th… holy moly he looks like Grandpa here and a bit of dad…

.. and like Aunt Ellie here:

And my favorite… as a young man out on the trail. Smitty probably took this. For me, this is who he was, a lover of nature, trees and the mountains.

[As I get to that looming photo project, I will hunt down some others that represent different eras and passions… but this was the best I could come up with tonight.]

.. there was waiting.

We knew it was just a matter of time–hours, maybe a day. Throughout the day, we hung out, talked, told stories. It was a little teary, but mostly people were staying upbeat around Uncle Vic and each other just to keep it all together. Lots of visitors.

Aunt Jane (really, Uncle Vic’s first cousin and one of his favorites) and husband Jon come from Berkeley, she with an autoharp she’d acquired recently at a garage sale and just learned to play. She’s got a beautiful voice and a charming, open-hearted spirit. What a joy!

She sat at Uncle Vic’s bedside and played a bunch of songs. Then she sang Time After Time (the 1940s song, not Cyndi Lauper’s) and kind of brought the house down.. only because, unbeknownst to her, this was Uncle Vic and Aunt Joy’s song, maybe not their only song, but one they loved and danced to.. right there in the foyer. We’re told.

TIME AFTER TIME

Time after time, I tell myself that I’m

So lucky to be loving you

So lucky to be the one you run to see In the evening,when the day is through

I only know what I know, the passing years will show

You’ve kept my love so young, so new

And time after time, you’ll hear me say that

I’m So lucky to be loving you  

I only know what I know, the passing years will show

You’ve kept my love so young, so new

And time after time, you’ll hear me say that

I’m So lucky to be loving you

(From the film “It Happened in Brooklyn” (1947) (Jule Styne / Sammy Cahn) Frank Sinatra)

Here are some shots:

Aunt Jane and Uncle Vic:

Aunt Joy and Uncle Vic listening to their song:

The twins, Conner and Miles:

Conner and Heidi:

And Koa. Good Dog! Hung out in the car all day… on a stormy Tuesday..

Assembly line production gets us through a lot of Christmases.

We do a reality check every couple years, wondering if this whole process is worth it, and it always is. It’s the gift of food, for the most part organic & healthy, locally grown, and something people can really consume and enjoy. We ship to relatives far out of region (in three cases, out of our state, so it’s extra nice to send them a bit of their home state). It supports local farmers, too. And don’t we all have enough stuff?

We noticed this year that the Farmer’s Market has a booth during the season, maybe just a couple Saturdays before Christmas, where they assemble their own market basket. Pretty good idea and maybe cheaper.  But part of our fun is putting them together. I will credit Cost Plus with selling a very cheap kit that includes a basket, wood straw, labels, a big bag to put the whole thing in and twine to tie it off… all for $6, so that’s a pretty great deal.

So this year it was: Olive oil, pomegranate jam, jalepeno honey, red walnuts (a bitter-free walnut developed by a guy at UC Davis), a wonderful savory herb mix, and chocolate covered pistachios. I would totally love this basket.

They got shipped to Idaho, Arizona, Montana, and Palos Verdes and we’ll hand carry one to Oakland. Jim does a great job of constructing the boxes, packing and weighing each package, and printing out the address labels and postage stickers. I’d wither at that set of tasks, so very glad to hand that off.

Not cheap, but worthwhile.

Waiting for a couple more things to roll in yet, but wrapped everything we had and put it all under the tree. Nice. Listening to the rain and sizing up what remains in the Christmas prep department… a few lose ends, but most of it’s wrapped up. Thinking about my Uncle Vic and Jim’s Aunt Annita, each struggling through what may be their last Christmas. Wrapping my head around that.

Lots of wrapping.

St. Mary Magdalen Catholic Church, concert this afternoon in Berkeley. Monica (alto)–one of four paid soloists–and Ben (tenor)–chosen for one of the eight remaining choir slots–sang. It was the first time mom and son had performed together. Very sweet.

The church in a Berkeleyesque neighborhood just off The Alameda:

Ben:

Monica was obscured most of the time by other singers and I couldn’t get a decent line-o-sight.

Though I know not a thing about music–Renaissance, Medieval, Baroque, especially, or otherwise–I just so enjoy this stuff. Especially around this time of year, especially in an echo-y church.

And it’s probably best that I can’t understand a thing they’re saying, like for example, “…. we adore you, fertile virgin, untouched spouse, chaste child-bearer… you have the joys of a mother, O Mary, with the honor of virginity.” I think motherhood is pretty darn divine the other way, personally.

I loved it all, though particularly the soprano solos accompanied by a few strings.  Closed my eyes and floated aloft waves and waves of high notes.. it was almost dizzying (very pleasantly so). Or maybe I loved most particularly when all twelve sang, which sounded so incredibly silky and harmonious. Whatever was going on, I was loving it.

I learned a little something about articulation, and why it’s so hard sometimes to understand the words, even if you’re following along with the program. Monica compared a soprano solo to water coming out of a hose: when you’re singing, interrupting the flow to insert consonants (to actually enunciate words) is like passing your hand back and forth through the flow of water… It alters the smooth texture of the sound and creates a choppiness that is not desirable.  So particularly in the higher ranges, singers have no problem running over the outlines of words, particularly ignoring the harder consonants in order to maintain a smooth, uninterrupted, textureless sound. (Which was exactly the wave aloft which I was floating. Ha.)

For instruments, they had Baroque strings (two violins and a cello), a lute, a harpsichord, an organ and a cornetto

Besides being really unusual and rare to hear, I also found out this about cornettos:

The cornett, cornetto, or zink is an early wind instrument that dates from the Medieval, Renaissance and Baroque periods, popular from 1500–1650.^[1] It was used in what are now called alta capellas or wind ensembles. It is not to be confused with the trumpet-like cornet.

The sound of the cornett was produced by lip vibrations against a cup mouthpiece. A cornett consists of a conical wooden pipe covered in leather, is about 24 inches long, and has finger holes and a small horn or ivory mouthpiece.

And I found this info on the harpsichord:

A harpsichord is a musical instrument played by means of a keyboard. It produces sound by plucking a string when a key is pressed.

“Harpsichord” designates the whole family of similar plucked keyboard instruments, including the smaller virginals, muselar, and spinet.

The harpsichord was widely used in Renaissance and Baroque music. During the late 18th century it gradually disappeared from the musical scene with the rise of the piano.

I thought this one was handsome:

It’s nice to have cousins who sing!

Christmas comes with many tasks..

Those are envelopes that have been addressed and stamped (and apparently counted) and are awaiting the photo card that goes inside. Definitely one of the more tasky aspects of the holidays.

Yeah… so… Christmas for so many years felt like one big to-do list. A hallelujah choir of a to-do list. The madonna of all to-do lists. A to-do list with tasks, tables, completion dates, shopping lists, guidelines for setting up stations and staging areas… the whole fruitcake.  Mastered it, reveled in the accomplishment of hundreds (probably) of tasks, even dared think myself worthy and awesome for beating Christmas into submission.

Every year, though, at some point, accomplishment gave way to cynicism. I was losing the point. I hated being on a task-driven march to the 25th. Christmas as project management started to feel stupid. What was all of this for?

This was followed by years of getting mad at myself for being cynical, as in you are smarter than this, Peterson, surely you can find a way to not be victimized by the holiday, surely you can pull together enough that is sweet and personal and meaningful for and with your family to make it enjoyable, and please, dude, stop complaining, it’s so unattractive.

Which, I did pull myself together. Got real. Grew up. After flogging myself so hard for so many years to get out of my head and into my heart, I’m finally starting to experience a lot more heart, a lot more spirit.. if I may say.

Still have the master to-do list, that part didn’t change, but the attitude did. I’m older, wiser and so much less annoying. I still get satisfaction out of moving through tasks. But I’m actively seeking calm in the process and actively working to eliminate freneticism.

Magic has become that quiet place inside. I wanted time to think. About family, about other people, just about life. It’s a great time of year to reflect. And time to slow down. Space, too–spaces that are pleasing and nice to be in, including emotional spaces. All that helps to keep everything in perspective.

For the last few years, I’ve thought about just a few traditions and worked to keep them simple. You can do it hard or you can do it easy. Choose easy. Nobody cares about perfection, such a silly word. JIm just wants me happy, Peter just wants presents. Let’s do that! Kids mature; one day with steady, gentle reminders, he’ll see a Christmas beyond presents. It will happen.

I’m really liking the direction this is all going.

So, talk about a staging area… hazzah! I sat here and stuffed envelopes and wrote on a few of the cards. It’s supposed to be a joyful thing, right?, connecting with family and friends, sharing a part of yourself and your life over the past year. For me, the task becomes so much more pleasant if I give it time and do it in a space I love to be in. I actually fell asleep.

That’s what I’m talking about.