This morning, one of those pitch-perfect September mornings, the first Saturday after school started, I ran past the soccer fields, and it was all as it's been since my kids were kids. Tiny creatures in crayon yellow and crayon green T-shirts were buzzing around a black and white ball, with adults hovering above and around them with whistles and snacks and sweatshirts. Of course it took me back to my days sitting sideline, often with a nursing textbook, always with other grownups with whom I may or may not have had a lot in common, but if nothing else, at least those kids. It was a ritual, a rite, in our case one that our son always seemed to regret having gotten involved with shortly after the start of the season. I kind of miss those days, and I kind of don't. I felt much more a part of this community then, which was cool.
This afternoon, a pitch-perfect September afternoon, I did a Dallas afternoon romp, first to the library to return overdue books, get seduced by some others I don't have time for, and to check out my those books without human help. Okay, I needed a human to help me learn to do it, but now I can do it alone. When the lady cheerfully told me I could check out books without her, the first thing out of my mouth was, "But what about your job?" She assured me she'd still have a job. (I hope she wasn't insulted, thinking I thought her job was only about passing things under a scanner and collecting the only kind of fines most people don't mind paying. She didn't seem to be.) Then I went to a vacant lot and bought apples, corn, and shiny red pears from the blind man and his family who always sell them. I had to read the scale and report honestly so they could charge me correctly. He did the math in his head. Then I went to a coffee kiosk in the Safeway parking lot and ordered a cherry Italian soda without cream, which is one of the prettiest and most refreshing things in the world. THEN, a glutton for a good afternoon, and mainly just a glutton, I went to the deserted noodle and sushi place on Main and got the evilest yummy sushi roll, now known as a Dallas Roll, which is deep fried. I was the only one in the perfectly un-air-conditioned restaurant and enjoyed a peaceful feast over a book I like but expect to end badly, and it all only was broken by my pager bleating at me, because, yes, I'm on call.
A little later my daughter called, and I told her of the roadbumps in the way of our efforts to move to her general neck of the woods, North Portland, but that I hadn't lost hope. She told me that she has some adoptive grandchildren in that neighborhood she thinks we might take advantage of (and their parents of us!) and I was glad to hear it.
Now, this evening, I'm going to do a bad job of cooking steak, and eat the corn I bought, and try to polish off a children's feature (is there a better word than "feature" for this kind of thing? It isn't really a story, so...?) about lost and found sheep and people. Sometimes I think my life is a little bland. I imagine by now you do, too. But a normal day like this is such a pipe dream for so many, and I will not despise that, and I will be, am, grateful.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Generations
Last week was the annual Doyle (my side of the family) gathering at the beach. I realized we've been going to the beach together every summer for about 35 years now. There are 14 of us all told now, down from a high of 15: Mom, her three children and our spouses, our collective 7 children. None of the seven currently have spouses, and Mom has no great grandchildren.
At times I feel a little wistful about this, but my sister reminded me that we in our generation are all still very tethered to the working world, all work more than full time, and would probably not be the grandparents our mom and dad were, as they retired with energy to spare. It actually made me feel better, oddly, and it also helps to recall that we have marvelous children, who are making their way in the world and making life better for others, and who don't break our hearts on a daily basis, as many children unfortunately do.
If there were no God, having children would have to be considered a crap shoot, with the likelihood of pain and pleasure about equal. Recently on NPR I heard about a study (or several?) indicating that most people are less happy after they have children than before. This is hard to believe from where I sit, but may be true, I suppose. But there is a God, who I believe arranges for our spiritual progress through the fruit of our loins, and theirs through us, if we're expectant and alert. Which is a bigger deal than mere Happiness. I'm grateful for the progress and the happiness mine have provoked.
I'm also grateful for the Doyles who are great cooks, great laughers, great listeners to music (and some of us great sing-alongers, even if others of us disagree), great junk-shop trawlers, and who, though we only do it three times, a year, love to hang out with each other.
At times I feel a little wistful about this, but my sister reminded me that we in our generation are all still very tethered to the working world, all work more than full time, and would probably not be the grandparents our mom and dad were, as they retired with energy to spare. It actually made me feel better, oddly, and it also helps to recall that we have marvelous children, who are making their way in the world and making life better for others, and who don't break our hearts on a daily basis, as many children unfortunately do.
If there were no God, having children would have to be considered a crap shoot, with the likelihood of pain and pleasure about equal. Recently on NPR I heard about a study (or several?) indicating that most people are less happy after they have children than before. This is hard to believe from where I sit, but may be true, I suppose. But there is a God, who I believe arranges for our spiritual progress through the fruit of our loins, and theirs through us, if we're expectant and alert. Which is a bigger deal than mere Happiness. I'm grateful for the progress and the happiness mine have provoked.
I'm also grateful for the Doyles who are great cooks, great laughers, great listeners to music (and some of us great sing-alongers, even if others of us disagree), great junk-shop trawlers, and who, though we only do it three times, a year, love to hang out with each other.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Bad memory
I read a riveting neuroscience blog called The Frontal Cortex at http://scienceblogs.com/cortex/. (Yeah, you heard me. Riveting.) A recent post called "Memory is Fiction" discusses the mutability and unreliability of memory in a way that is quite depressing.
Evidence exists that the more often you remember something the more inaccurate the memory becomes. Apparently it gets trimmed down, embellished up, worked over, and plowed under the soil of other memories, and you really can't trust it as well as you wish you could. Was I really going to a church quilting day when I heard of the Challenger disaster? Was I really standing is line to eat lunch in 7th grade when the PA system began broadcasting radio coverage of the Kennedy assassination? (Did I really eat a whole bag of potato chips every time I babysat for the Kirchbergers?) Studies that have asked for these vivid kinds of memories to be recalled immediately and a long time after the events they recall show that it all really breaks down something awful. And yet, much as I love studies, and Science, there is a level on which I really can't believe this is true. Memory is sacred.
But I wonder if the science isn't a case for reunions and hanging out occasionally with old friends you never see and don't think you have a lot in common with anymore. Just going over the old stuff you did that made you who you are, and getting their take on it all seems worthwhile.
My little sister often "reminds" me that I went to bat for her when she was arguing with mom over the right to wear nylons to school in junior high. Believe me, this was once not only fashionable, but essential to avoid being a fashion pariah. Really, it was. She says I told mom to please not make her go through what I had gone through in my 7th and 8th grade years (when mom's position was firm--nylons were expensive and stupid). I used the quotes around "reminds" above because I don't actually remember doing this. But I'm glad to know it. It makes me look like a good big sister, and that makes me happy. And if she didn't "remind" me, I wouldn't know it.
I think the unreliability of memory is also, obviously, a case for writing things down fresh, in an indelible format. Like blogging (snicker) or a real paper journal.
Visit, write. Beat those unfaithful neurons!
Evidence exists that the more often you remember something the more inaccurate the memory becomes. Apparently it gets trimmed down, embellished up, worked over, and plowed under the soil of other memories, and you really can't trust it as well as you wish you could. Was I really going to a church quilting day when I heard of the Challenger disaster? Was I really standing is line to eat lunch in 7th grade when the PA system began broadcasting radio coverage of the Kennedy assassination? (Did I really eat a whole bag of potato chips every time I babysat for the Kirchbergers?) Studies that have asked for these vivid kinds of memories to be recalled immediately and a long time after the events they recall show that it all really breaks down something awful. And yet, much as I love studies, and Science, there is a level on which I really can't believe this is true. Memory is sacred.
But I wonder if the science isn't a case for reunions and hanging out occasionally with old friends you never see and don't think you have a lot in common with anymore. Just going over the old stuff you did that made you who you are, and getting their take on it all seems worthwhile.
My little sister often "reminds" me that I went to bat for her when she was arguing with mom over the right to wear nylons to school in junior high. Believe me, this was once not only fashionable, but essential to avoid being a fashion pariah. Really, it was. She says I told mom to please not make her go through what I had gone through in my 7th and 8th grade years (when mom's position was firm--nylons were expensive and stupid). I used the quotes around "reminds" above because I don't actually remember doing this. But I'm glad to know it. It makes me look like a good big sister, and that makes me happy. And if she didn't "remind" me, I wouldn't know it.
I think the unreliability of memory is also, obviously, a case for writing things down fresh, in an indelible format. Like blogging (snicker) or a real paper journal.
Visit, write. Beat those unfaithful neurons!
Monday, May 31, 2010
Visit to the cemetery
Today, we did something we've never actually done before. We (Merlin, kids, and I) went up to the Dallas cemetery and put flowers at the grave of Merlin's parents and our aunt. I know Memorial Day is established to honor war dead, but we are Mennonites, as were the Brandt elders before us, and so have no war dead of our own. But I remembered that Mom and Dad used to go up to their parents' graves on Memorial Day, and it seemed for once like we ought to honor them the same way. I suddenly wanted anyone who passed by the section where they and their parents lie to know we hadn't forgotten them.
I was surprised how widely decorated the (huge, beautiful) cemetery was, including the section near the road that contains the bones of Dallasites buried over a century ago. Many other headstones of folks we knew already had been visited and remembrances left. One headstone had little glass beads and stars arranged around the flowers. Molly had suggested we leave a few chocolate covered cherries (which, I guess, sounds a little "Dia de los Muertes" to me, although kind of appropriate to her grandparents), but I forgot to get them.
Not sure when we'll do it again. Not sure I know why we do it. But I think however we go about it, it's good to recall with gratitude the great cloud of witnesses who are no longer running the race, but who enabled us to run it, and who I believe still care how we run it.
I was surprised how widely decorated the (huge, beautiful) cemetery was, including the section near the road that contains the bones of Dallasites buried over a century ago. Many other headstones of folks we knew already had been visited and remembrances left. One headstone had little glass beads and stars arranged around the flowers. Molly had suggested we leave a few chocolate covered cherries (which, I guess, sounds a little "Dia de los Muertes" to me, although kind of appropriate to her grandparents), but I forgot to get them.
Not sure when we'll do it again. Not sure I know why we do it. But I think however we go about it, it's good to recall with gratitude the great cloud of witnesses who are no longer running the race, but who enabled us to run it, and who I believe still care how we run it.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Because it is time to blog again....
I've been on vacation, and back, and the coming back was with a vengeance, as the saying goes, to an office under stress. Well, under more stress than usual. I've stared at the screen for some indeterminate amount of time, trying to think what to tell you. It would be a boring little kvetch, if I talk about work.
So I'll share the few poems that came out of the travels this time. The first two have an obvious connection to the trip, and the last just popped out after I came home. If history is any indicator, it could be a while before any more poems happen.
The Right Coast
I am home from Florida.
Only two margaritas in ten days,
but I got drunk on the ocean,
so different from my Pacific,
recalling which,
I felt the guilt of unfaithfulness.
So drunk on the ocean, I couldn’t drive.
I could only
stare and stare at the green and greens
of the bay, the ocean, the bight.
On the last day, that ocean turned nearly
blue for me.
So I could stand to come home.
May 2010
Old Folks
Wed seventy-three years, they were
Parted by death for only seven months,
and then reunited by it.
They were in love the whole time
(truly, though not always smoothly,
I learned near the end).
Coming past Mt. Hood on a Continental flight,
I wrap their third son’s arm in both of mine,
perfectly content, and aware of it,
to be watching Mt. Hood with this man after a paltry
36 years, knowing at some point, unfathomably,
death will us part.
That son, a man, married a child
who knew what she wanted,
has always known what she has,
and never questioned her choice.
Grateful, as other children-in-law,
to those old folks who lasted
longer than any of us will.
May 2010 (Pete and Sally Brandt’s 77th anniversary)
Aromata: Three Haiku from Runs
Fallen fir needles
smell like wild blackberry pie
baking in the sun.
*
Someone must have brought
Ariel laundry powder
home from Mexico.
*
Mimosa’s out there,
but where? Follow the nose out
over a high fence.
May 2010
So I'll share the few poems that came out of the travels this time. The first two have an obvious connection to the trip, and the last just popped out after I came home. If history is any indicator, it could be a while before any more poems happen.
The Right Coast
I am home from Florida.
Only two margaritas in ten days,
but I got drunk on the ocean,
so different from my Pacific,
recalling which,
I felt the guilt of unfaithfulness.
So drunk on the ocean, I couldn’t drive.
I could only
stare and stare at the green and greens
of the bay, the ocean, the bight.
On the last day, that ocean turned nearly
blue for me.
So I could stand to come home.
May 2010
Old Folks
Wed seventy-three years, they were
Parted by death for only seven months,
and then reunited by it.
They were in love the whole time
(truly, though not always smoothly,
I learned near the end).
Coming past Mt. Hood on a Continental flight,
I wrap their third son’s arm in both of mine,
perfectly content, and aware of it,
to be watching Mt. Hood with this man after a paltry
36 years, knowing at some point, unfathomably,
death will us part.
That son, a man, married a child
who knew what she wanted,
has always known what she has,
and never questioned her choice.
Grateful, as other children-in-law,
to those old folks who lasted
longer than any of us will.
May 2010 (Pete and Sally Brandt’s 77th anniversary)
Aromata: Three Haiku from Runs
Fallen fir needles
smell like wild blackberry pie
baking in the sun.
*
Someone must have brought
Ariel laundry powder
home from Mexico.
*
Mimosa’s out there,
but where? Follow the nose out
over a high fence.
May 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
A Few Thoughts on Aging
The drive to correct grammar and spelling does not diminish with age. You just learn to only do it on your own stuff.
A good pair of glasses that will not embarrass you in front of your 20- and 30-something friends, with progressive (read, "line-free") correction for reading and computer work, costs you $400. After the AARP discount.
We look younger than our parents at our age because they helped us keep our own teeth.
We should be enviable company to our youngers--we know a lot of interesting stuff (and yet know that we know nothing), can see the humor in anything, can add humor where we can't find it, and we are so humble.
They will be us before they know it.
When I was in my thirties, I thought those 40-something women who wore shorts over their swimsuits were just being silly. Around 15 years ago, when I was 40-something, I got it. I'm now buying "swimskirts". Never say never.
I repeat myself, but... Never say never.
A poem from two years ago:
Sleeveless dress
My arms, somewhat dimpled,
a little slack,
must offend some who see them.
But I already retired my thighs and my belly
from public life.
Everything from chin to cleavage is at risk.
And the toenails. Please.
I can’t retire my arms.
They will go beneath summer sleeves
When I take a veil over my face.
Not a day sooner.
A good pair of glasses that will not embarrass you in front of your 20- and 30-something friends, with progressive (read, "line-free") correction for reading and computer work, costs you $400. After the AARP discount.
We look younger than our parents at our age because they helped us keep our own teeth.
We should be enviable company to our youngers--we know a lot of interesting stuff (and yet know that we know nothing), can see the humor in anything, can add humor where we can't find it, and we are so humble.
They will be us before they know it.
When I was in my thirties, I thought those 40-something women who wore shorts over their swimsuits were just being silly. Around 15 years ago, when I was 40-something, I got it. I'm now buying "swimskirts". Never say never.
I repeat myself, but... Never say never.
A poem from two years ago:
Sleeveless dress
My arms, somewhat dimpled,
a little slack,
must offend some who see them.
But I already retired my thighs and my belly
from public life.
Everything from chin to cleavage is at risk.
And the toenails. Please.
I can’t retire my arms.
They will go beneath summer sleeves
When I take a veil over my face.
Not a day sooner.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Hey, Poppa Bird!
Today is my dad's 86th birthday, and although he left the mortal phase of his 11 years ago, I think of him and his mark on us often. "Poppa Bird" was one of his favorite nicknames for himself. Here are some of the things he did:
Balanced me standing on one hand at age 5 months. Must have driven Mom nuts. I have a picture of this blown up to blurry proportions in my stairwell, so I see him and me in 1952 every time I go downstairs.
Scared (or tried to scare) my few boyfriends. Mainly by use of his strange sense of humor. Couldn't scare Merlin.
Taught me to drive, and especially how to skid to a stop on gravel. He always said to keep my eyes far down the road, not at what was right in front of me. Good advice on all levels, especially for a girl who tends to fixate on all the obstacles within three feet of her instead of just mowing them down.
Taught me (albeit through the agency of mom after he died) to make the best homemade dill pickles anyone has ever eaten. Really. The Best.
Went frequently to Monty's Bar, and the Old Heidelburg Inn, and brought back the foods that are still my downfall, namely anything pungent and salty, especially pickled polish sausage and greasy fries.
Told me I didn't need to go to college since I was a girl and then sent me and bragged about me to his friends.
Got lung cancer at 45, survived, I assume miraculously, and kept on smoking. Yeah, I can't recommend that, but he was (all due respect) kind of a cuss that way. This retired him, so he spent lots of time gardening and ferrying his elderly friends around to appointments.
Loved to send flowers to all of us. (Maybe not to my brother. Casey?)
Went to the mall the day I delivered his first grandchild and had a T-shirt made that said "Call me Grampaw: Molly". Then every time another grandchild appeared, went down to the mall and added a name to it. Actually wore it a lot.
Could find a bargain on anything, and no matter what you bought, if you told him what you paid, assured you that he could have gotten it cheaper. I know, lots of you have that kind of dad. I think it's Y-chromosome-related.
Loved going to the doctor. Didn't live to see his "First-borned" (nickname for me) become something close to one.
Had very strange taste in clothes.
Had excellent taste in women. Happy Dad's Birthday, Mom!
Balanced me standing on one hand at age 5 months. Must have driven Mom nuts. I have a picture of this blown up to blurry proportions in my stairwell, so I see him and me in 1952 every time I go downstairs.
Scared (or tried to scare) my few boyfriends. Mainly by use of his strange sense of humor. Couldn't scare Merlin.
Taught me to drive, and especially how to skid to a stop on gravel. He always said to keep my eyes far down the road, not at what was right in front of me. Good advice on all levels, especially for a girl who tends to fixate on all the obstacles within three feet of her instead of just mowing them down.
Taught me (albeit through the agency of mom after he died) to make the best homemade dill pickles anyone has ever eaten. Really. The Best.
Went frequently to Monty's Bar, and the Old Heidelburg Inn, and brought back the foods that are still my downfall, namely anything pungent and salty, especially pickled polish sausage and greasy fries.
Told me I didn't need to go to college since I was a girl and then sent me and bragged about me to his friends.
Got lung cancer at 45, survived, I assume miraculously, and kept on smoking. Yeah, I can't recommend that, but he was (all due respect) kind of a cuss that way. This retired him, so he spent lots of time gardening and ferrying his elderly friends around to appointments.
Loved to send flowers to all of us. (Maybe not to my brother. Casey?)
Went to the mall the day I delivered his first grandchild and had a T-shirt made that said "Call me Grampaw: Molly". Then every time another grandchild appeared, went down to the mall and added a name to it. Actually wore it a lot.
Could find a bargain on anything, and no matter what you bought, if you told him what you paid, assured you that he could have gotten it cheaper. I know, lots of you have that kind of dad. I think it's Y-chromosome-related.
Loved going to the doctor. Didn't live to see his "First-borned" (nickname for me) become something close to one.
Had very strange taste in clothes.
Had excellent taste in women. Happy Dad's Birthday, Mom!
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