Rolf . . .

. . . died today of pneumonia in Stockton, California at 9:15 PST. He was my brother and he was 62. He had been hospitalized with mental illness--undifferentiated schizophrenia--since he was 16. Most who read this are unaware that I even had a brother. It wasn't that I was embarrassed or ashamed, far from it. It was simply very sad to talk about him at all, even sadder to visit him.

He was born of a manic-depressive/schizophrenic mother who only survived and managed to care for herself until her death thanks to the discovery of lithium. Most of her illness got passed on to him, I guess. In addition, he was born with a large birthmark on his upper left cheek that was clumsily removed while a patient at the University of Minnesota during the second time my Mom was hospitalized at the mental facility in Moose Lake. It left a large scar. As if that weren't enough, he was also born with a paralyzed seventh facial nerve, a condition that forced him to smile only on the right side of his face because the left side wouldn't move. So here's a boy with a scar and a strange smile whose brother and mom were gone (I left them when I was 13 and he was 8, not long before Mom got removed to the Ha-Ha Hotel again) and who'd been banged from pillar to post.

You'd go nuts, too. If you weren't already, that is.

He came to live with me, my dad and my stepmother in California when he was 10, which was immediately after the U of M incarceration. This was after a series of foster homes while my mom was at Moose Lake. He never really adapted out west, and though quite smart became more and more inward over the next 6 years, said crazy things, laughed at all the wrong times and at all the wrong things.

And so on.

I'm not going to give any more history here. He will be cremated in Stockton, and his ashes sent to Minnesota for interment next to his mother, grandparents and an uncle. There won't be an epitaph on his marker other than to say that he was the son of Hazel Dehning. What else should be on it but won't be?

Here, I'll tell you:

He Never Had a Chance.
Or maybe even, in the language I don't think he even knew I could speak,

Pace, Fratello; Finalmente, Pace a Te.

Unit

After instructional set-up at my buddy's in Costa Mesa . . .

. . . first outing in Kings Canyon NP (that's a bear box Erin is hiding behind) . . . note slide-out diner . . .

. . . slumber party in Tahoe: Sam and Beck (grandson #2) . . .

. . . note fold-out galley . . .

. . . galley left, diner right, breakfast cook center in the coolest Gear Queer shirt ever . . .

. . . underway near Mt. Shasta, NorCal.

TravelSummer

It was great to be back in Italy after twenty years; a gorgeous country with wonderful people. The national party that went on after Milan beat Munich for the European Cup (for the first time in 40 years) was not to be believed; we stayed with it until about 1:30 AM and then finally went to bed. It was also fun to speak that language again; it came back faster than I had imagined it would. Erin's tour was a smashing success, particularly for all of those Bama kids, many of whom had never been out of Bama, a few of whom had never been on a plane. And they performed an extremely difficult repertoire beautifully. Oh, and Patti and Gene Colwitz had a blast--they were the stars of the trip, especially on the bus.

***

And I was back in Bulgaria for the first time since 1999, but working and earning a few bucks this time at a choral/orchestral workshop. The six conductors worked with two teachers for two weeks on the Mozart Requiem and a Sinfonia Concertante, performing both in a final concert. They had a fine professional orchestra and a beautifully trained Bulgarian choir to work with, and I got to know Danail Rachev, who is the new conductor of the Eugene, OR Symphony. He and I worked together well with the six conductors. While everybody there (especially the young) now seems to speak a bit of English (it wasn't that way in '99), the second language was German in the resort village where we stayed, so I had no problems whatever with my second language, only the boorish tourists who spoke it--Germans have replaced us as the most despised, arrogant tourists around. With good reason. Wilkommen an unser Welt, Freunde. The hotel, food and folk dancing were great, by the way; Eastern Europe is a place all its own, especially around the Black Sea.

***

Then a month of camping in our 2004 Fleetwood Bayside Elite pop-up camp trailer with hot and cold running water, slide out diner, fold out galley, and heater that came on automatically when the temp went below 50F several times. We picked it up at my buddy's in Costa Mesa and drove to Kings Canyon NP. After that, Patti and Gene then joined us (two full king size beds) in Yosemite NP, Jedediah Smith SP, and Tahoe (Sugar Pine Point SP), where we all camped with Libby, Lee and the Boys, celebrating birthdays of the Boys (late), Lee, Libby, and me (early). It was a fantastic time and the best birthday present imaginable--we all just wished Meg could have been there.

Then to Glacier NP, where these pics were shot (the second entitled 'Man, Dog, Fire.' Grunt). I'd never been there and I'm delighted we went: spectacular beauty, Sam learned to swim in Lake MacDonald, Erin and I did a bit of minor whitewater rafting (nine in the raft, only I got wet), historic, picturesque lodges.

And finally, a week at the 11-acre Colwitz Estate in Wisconsin that is Valhalla to Sam: he rolls in the acres of grass, runs in the oat field with only his tail visible, poops where he wants, swims in The Lake That Gene Dug, and runs free without leash at all times. It was a fitting reward for the superb traveler and camper that he was; he's now a confirmed Western Mountain Dog.

Roman New Year

Snowing today and the whole dang town is shut down: schools are closed and you can't find milk, bread or eggs in the stores. Buncha peckerwood wusses, lemme tell ya. We're supposed to get about two inches, which is a lot for Bama; people are already planning plots for their snow angels.

Speaking of snow, got back from Green Bay last Sunday eve, where there was plenty of the stuff; Sam loves snow and winter in Wisconsin--he can't get enough of it. So if it accumulates enough today, will take him out and let him roll around in it for one of his snow showers; there won't be enough for him to dig for last summer's detritus or shove his nose into, but he'll enjoy it anyway.

***

Had a great New Year week in Green Bay with the Colwitz family, especially with Patti and Gene and with Bro Andy and his wonderful live-in squeeze, Jennine ('Neenie' to me, 'Neener' to everyone else). Great food, fun taverns, exquisite NYE dinner in the 'Moose Room,' pool at Andy's Packer Bar, champagne and caviar at Midnight (a first for P and G, who were good sports and tried it). Erin and Fam played with the Wii until they were blind and/or staggering. Neenie just giggled and I just read while they played; I'm a lousy digital athlete, Andy is gifted, Erin and Gene are pretty good (sorry, Patti). Erin wants one for here, of course; that'll be the day . . . Picture of the six of us at a local wine bar above (fine company, bad wine to this Californian who has tasted it all in California and France). Ah, and we can't forget litte niece Olivia, who is a sweet little chunker.

***

End of my year tonight with the end of college football, then a long drought until my New Year's Day on 1 September broken only by the country's finest athletic event: the NCAA basketball tournament in March.

***

Back to work now for Erin; back to Husbandry of house, wife, dog, and body for me (stretching, Tai-Chi, weights, and hoops at the Y). Also back to church work, where the organist thinks I was on drugs while choosing Epiphany music: Brahms, Mendelssohn, Handel, Duruflé. Making Coq au Vin tonight from a recipe I got from the owner of the wine bar above. Looks pretty good, too.

***

Happy New Year to you Roman Calendar heathens; hope you Christians had an Epiphany yesterday. Thanks to all who responded to my digital Christmas Card and sent us real ones; love you all. Time for Tai-Chi . . .

Europe

Wow, that was fun.

We were a great quartet on the road through France (Alsace), Switzerland, Germany, Austria, and Cesky Krumlov in the Czech Republic. We majored in Munich and I think the other three are glad we did: had to major in something during the 12 days, might as well be Munich, thought I. Biggest hit there was the Viktualien Markt behind the Marienplatz: all manner of exotic food stalls and a biergarten. Well . . . Hofbraühaus was fun for all, too (I've managed to outgrow my innate snobbishness, but I did take them to a less well known beer hall first. Just to make sure . . . ). Only problem was that Erin and I seemed to be the only ones who knew words and tune to "Ein prosit . ." which the band played every twenty minutes--too damned many touring furrigners . . .

Biggest surprise to start with was an upgrade on the car from a Beemer 5 Series wagon to the Beemer X5 SUV with inline 6 turbo-diesel and an incredible navigation system. It held all of our luggage with even a little room to see out the back window and was very comfortable, even in the back seat. And did that sucker scoot: Gene got it up to 220 kph with pedal room left, but it seemed that every time I drove it there was either rain or a lot of construction so I only got to get it to 180. Sigh. Such travails.

Oh. And we did eat, drink and make merry, the highlight of which was a great Italian restaurant in Munich where we could watch the cook and sous chef work and listen to them holler at the waiters, the customers (all of whom seemed to be Italian) and each other. The chef/owner forced some very smooth grappa down my gullet for free during one of his smoke breaks at an outside table: he and his son-in-law thought I was the best American they'd ever met because I could speak both German and Italian. They may be right. The Colwitz's and I went through three bottles of wine and a dessert shot of grappa each. I had the worst hangover of the bunch the next morning. Groan. I'm back to asceticism, thank goodness.

So that's the important stuff to us guys: cars and food. Gene even liked the Munich beer and now he knows where Wisconsin got its brats. The unimportant lady piffle wasn't bad, either--city tours, quaint walled cities, experiencing the best social democracies outside of Scandinavia, museums, shopping for Bohemian crystal in CZ, and Munich's smooth, fast rapid transit. The highlight of the tour was High Mass on Pentecost Sunday at St. Stephens in Vienna. The resident Cardinal officiated, the chorus and professional orchestra did Haydn's Harmonie Messe (damned well, by the way), the air was suffused with smells and bells and the place was SRO (Pentecost is a big deal in Europe). All in all a real cultural thrill for the three Catholic Colwitz's and even for this lapsed Lutheran. Also in Vienna, it was great seeing USC Chamber Choir alums Melanie Heyn and Gabe Wyner, who have been there quite a while studying opera and voice; they showed us around the inner city and we had fun at dinner together talking about their studies and their lives as ex-pats in Deutscher Land.

For me, the most fun was using my German daily after over twenty years. It came back fairly quickly and I was never mistaken for American; if nothing else, my pronunciation is very good, guided as it is by my musician's ear. Gloat.

So cities, in order: Colmar, Bern, Geneva (with a short side trip to Montreux--Lord, what a beautiful location), Munich (including Dachau concentration camp), Salzburg, Vienna, Cesky Krumlov, Munich again, Dinkelsbühl (and Rothenburg), Frankfurt. Total of four nights in Munich, two each in Geneva and Vienna, one night each elsewhere, except Bern, which was just a morning stop-over from Colmar to Geneva. Hotels ranged from one 4-star (Vienna) to a cutesy B and B (Dinkelsbühl). The rest were great except for the second Munich one, which sucked despite the three stars it seemed to have earned somehow.

***

For more pics, see Viking Goddess's album at picasa.google.com. Since arriving home, Erin has been busy acquiring leadership of a fine community chorus here in town (three cheers for her), and running rehearsals for an opera and a musical most nights. I've been busy acquiring her birthday present: a new 2008 Wolfsburg Edition VW Jetta. Red. With the two-liter GTI turbo motor (200 bhp). Got ground effects all around, plus a lip spoiler on the trunk lid. Snakey little thing. Premium, 10-speaker sound system with Sirius radio, too. Only problem is some hail dimples on all horizontal surfaces from the last big winter storm, but that lowered the price mucho plenty. We'll leave them there for the time being, until we have enough money to get paintless dent removal. We donated Erin's nine-year-old Mitsubishi with 170k miles to our local NPR station for the tax deduction.

Bis nächstes Mal: wiedersehen.

Married

Erin and I got married a week ago today. It was a short civil event at the county courthouse here in Huntsville. Our witnesses were two great men who are partners in life: Wilson and Ron. They both work for the library at the university and both are musicians--Wilson an organist and Ron a very accomplished, fine tenor who is in demand as a soloist hereabouts. The reason we chose them is that they were part of Erin's selection committee and it was love at first sight: they loved her and vice versa. They really lobbied her to take the job and move here. We are glad they did. You see above the wedding party at the courthouse, the pre-dinner bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape I bought (yum), and below, us at the wedding dinner. (Note the custom made, double breasted, double vented blazer that was built for my bod at the tailor shop in the expensive hotel where I stayed last time I was in Korea. Spiffy, eh. The tailor was a prizewinner in a Swiss international competition).

So Sam is no longer a bastard dog and has real parents, which is a genuine relief to him, poor thing; he was embarrassed at the city dog park when asked about his current situation by other dogs. They pointed at him and laughed.

No longer. And Erin can now refer to me as her husband instead of her partner--which sounded like she was a lesbian, or as her man--which sounded like she was trailer trash. As for me, I was accustomed to being referred to occasionally as Mr. Colwitz and I once referred to myself early on as her live-in lover to a couple of delivery men who just spluttered and went about their work without ever looking me directly in the eye.

Now we have all the certificates that make it legal, one of which has Holy Matrimony on it (this is Alabama, after all) even though God was not mentioned by the judge, who by the way signs his name as Tommy instead of Thomas, even though middle-aged and an official of the court (this is Alabama, after all). Only his mom should call him Tommy, for Pete's sake.

Oh, and we didn't have to get an AIDS test (Alabama . . . )

"Holy Matrimony, Batman!!" This has become our new expletive.

We are both very pleased with our new status, though it hasn't affected (NOT impacted!) our relationship a bit: it remains the happy, affectionate, easy, contented, and occasionally erotic one that it was before Tommy's sanction of it. We are both very grateful for that. Holy Matrimony!

Erin's family is very happy for us, as is what remains of mine. Not everyone knows about it yet, even though Erin blabbed it all over Facebook (we were supposed to wait until the printed announcements arrived and were mailed, which happened yesterday. But no, Colwitz has to put it up on to the Cyber Gossip Page. Jeez).

But now it is official, and you can go on-line to Target and/or Williams-Sonoma, where we are registered for a period of time yet, and buy something for us from our wish list. Don't do this for me, do it for Erin, who hasn't had this experience yet and who didn't have a big white dress that cost four figures nor a gaggle of bridesmaids. A few items from these places would sure help make up for that (you can tell which things she tagged (candle paraphenalia, for God's sake) and which are mine (Pig Stuff: tools and knives and cookpots and other things for aging far-sighted hunter-gatherers). Only a few are really expensive, but nothing is over $200.

Sorry it's Christmas, too, but we didn't really want to wait.

*****

Up to Packerland in a week or so we go. And Rob and Brandon will be here from Cali for New Years Eve.

All in all: a very happy time, especially for me.

Even in Alabama, where we are having a sub-tropical monsoon at the moment, so I think I'll cook sauerkraut and porkchops tonight to remind me of my Nordic roots.

Bird

Here you see the Thanksgiving Extravaganza hosted by L and L. I was responsible for the bird, and I did a MagazineCover job, as you can see (click on the pic for a better view; I especially recommend this for a view of The Bird, to heck with DaBoys and their parents). Cooked it on the grill, as I have done since 1976--never have I shoved a bird in the oven. Imagine that. Most people east of the Rockies have no idea what I'm talking about. You want the recipe, give me a holler. Also note the supercool shirt I bought at CNN headquarters in Atlanta: my pro name is Petersen Hunter and I'm stationed in Kuala Lumpur.

Was great to be in Davis even though I got a cold and felt like hell much of the time. It was fun anyway. I already had met L and L's friends before, with some exceptions, but it was nice to see them all in one place and break bird with them.

You can see the spread set-up L and L laid on for the gang (who all brought side dishes--the German woman brought dressing and gravy, saints preserve us). They did a beautiful job and everyone loved everything, including the six kids at the Kid Table, where K is the blond Prince Valiant and B is the one looking right at you. Wonderful, smart kids (sometimes too smart) who are now 4.5 and 2.5, respectively. Took them shopping for a couple of hours one day and bribed good behavior with smoothies; they were great, despite the delay at Long's Drugs.

I am thankful for such a family and love them dearly. DaBoys love me, too, and squeal with delight when they see me at the airport. K dubbed me 'Bumpah' when he was two and the appellation has stuck, thank goodness--none of that 'Grandpa' stuff for me, nossir.

And now am back in my Sweet Home Alabama, where it is cold and trying to snow. In a couple of weeks we go to Packerland for Christmas with Erin's huge family. I will cook Coq au Vin, we will see the last Packer game of the season against the worst team in the league, we will exchange gifts, we will go to Doot's for breakfast one morning, we will watch bowl games until numb, Sam will play in the snow for the first time (not looking forward to the 12-hour drive with a 60-lb. retriever 'puppy').

All in all: I couldn't be either luckier or happier. Sam could, though: he lost his nuts last Tuesday.

(Groan).

Packerland

So.

On 26 December we flew to Green Bay, opened presents with Erin's parents, her sister and brother and their S.Os. Then we ate. (Speaking of which, I cooked two meals for the six of us that week and they seemed to like them.) A couple of days later, we did a round robin to two houses, eating breakfast and then dinner and playing games with Patti's (Erin's mom) very loud family; the decibel level was remarkable and they are a very funny family, including the 86-year-old patriarch. I learned the expression "kiss my squirrel" from one of Patti's sisters. This was the first time that Erin had seen her family as Dr. Colwitz, by the way. They didn't seem to give a rip, though excited for her about her job and her move. I include a picture here of Erin when we went to a great New York style steak house in Long Beach to celebrate her Doctorization. Just so her family can see it.

We watched college bowl games all week, of course, but the highlight of the week for us was going to the Packer-Lions game on the 30th at Lambeau Field with Andy, Erin's brother, and Karen Schrock, my favorite soprano of all time. Karen's parents were the ones who scored the tickets for us, which were on the 20 and halfway up--great seats.

Of course, the temp was about 19 degrees. We had on Gene's (Erin's dad) ski and snow gear and I bought a pair of camo long underwear, tres chic, so we were fairly warm until the fourth quarter. Our tailgate party was with Karen's dad's corporate lawyer, who had converted an ambulance to a Packermobile for pregame partying, complete with brandy, beer, sandwiches and chili with macaroni in it (!!), but the sauce wasn't bad, even though a bit wussy with the pepper-- this is still Wisconsin, remember.

Speaking of Wisconsin, a Packer tailgate parking lot is a cultural phenomenon possibly unlike any other. 74,000 people are waiting for season tickets and those who have them spare no effort in terms of costumes, lunacy and sheer fun. Only sixteen people got tossed out, only five arrested. This is remarkable, considering the amount of booze consumed from 9:00 AM until the start of the fourth quarter. People are very friendly; no one is a stranger. Especially to Erin, Karen and Andy, who drank beer and talked to everyone and peed for most of the afternoon. I refrained from beer because of the icy steps and the many layers of clothing that I didn't want to bother with. Even in the heated toilets.

A big part of what makes Packer culture unique is the fact that, unlike any other team in the NFL, the Packers are not owned by a single, obscenely rich man or woman, but by the city and a corporation set up by the city. Green Bay citizens are in many ways shareholders in their team. This makes the team and the town easy to love--they are the smallest market in the league, yet they not only survive, they prosper. When the Pack won the Super Bowl, the town shut down for three days: no school, no work. Not bad for a city of only about 150,000. Astounding, actually. And in my mind, American in the best sense of that overused word. Their name comes from the fact that they started playing with a bunch of immigrants who worked for the Acme meatpacking company. These were not gentleman celebrities. These were tough sons-a-bitches who banged heads in their spare time for the hell of it. And probably for ten bucks a game. Better, and more fun, than killing livestock and skinning carcasses.

Speaking of carcasses, Erin and I had New Year's Eve dinner at a very trendy and expensive restaurant that actually had Osetra caviar and a fine wine list, in addition to an unheard-of cognac and espresso. Food wasn't bad, either, though overpriced. The room was beautiful--we were near the fireplace, a real one--but the focus of the room was an immense moose head over the fireplace. Ah, Wisconsin: caviar, cognac, coffee, and a moose head. Can't beat 'er, eh. Doesn't happen anywhere else.

As you know, Brett and the Pack play soon in the NFC Championship. Root for 'em. Ain't nothin' quite like 'em.

Nowhere.

Dad

My earliest memories of my Dad are two: a horrific spanking for spending bread money on candy, and his Ho-Ho-Ho coming in a window as Santa Claus. I was about five, my brother had just been born, and we were living in a suburb of Minneapolis, where Dad drove a city bus.

My Dad later drove buses in Seattle (with his buddy Charlie) and in Los Angeles, where he met my stepmother Kay. Dad and Charlie later became truck drivers in Los Angeles and had much to do with hauling the gravel and rock that built the LA freeways in the years from 1954-1964. After that period, he made an abortive attempt to sell real estate, discovering that this is chancy if you don't have any capital to get you through the lean times between commission checks. He even took the Dale Carnegie course and did his damnedest to make it work, but the worries about money led to a heart attack.

He was awful with money, anyway. One of the last and saddest things I remember about him was the son (me) having to loan the father (him) $600 that he didn't have for new truck tires. As the Jewish proverb says, when something like that happens, both weep. I owe my worries and whatever success I have had managing my financial life to my Dad's fecklessness in that regard and my Mom's craziness. Dad went through bankruptcy; Mom had to give her hoarded money away. (I was determined to be neither and have succeeded, providing food, clothing, travel, and education to my daughters, as well as decent security to both my wife and myself, even in divorce, mirabile dictu).

All that aside, despite only an eighth grade education, Dad did the best he could, and most important, he was one of the sweetest men ever. Everyone loved him. I only lived with him for four years during high school from 1956-1960. He did all he could to inculcate in me the importance of the kind of education he never had; he constantly encouraged me to study in high school, and the fact that I not only did that but went on to get the first college education on either side of the family--plus a doctorate, to boot--was a lifelong source of pride to him. He felt very bad about the fact that, because of his long hours building LA's freeways, he never heard one of my band concerts, saw me prance as a drum major, or saw one of my basketball games.

He did watch me play baseball twice. (One of the first things I did upon arriving in California was to join a Pony League baseball team in town. My dad bought me the glove, a ball, the spikes, and a second-hand bike to get to the practices and games). I was a pitcher (slow, but with a fine curve and a devilish, wild knuckleball), and Dad watched a game where I was not only the winning pitcher, but hit a double in the last inning to help myself win. The second game was the next summer in Babe Ruth League ball, where I got shelled 12-0. He consoled me and loved me anyway.

The reason that he had to perform sedentary work all of his life was the result of a war injury to his back; he couldn't lie on his back and straighten his legs. He landed in the second wave on Normandy's Omaha Beach on D-Day (6 June 1944). He was injured driving in a Jeep near St. Lo with his fellow Sergeant, Cratchett. They were both drunk, but that wasn't the problem, a German mortar shell was. It hit the back of the Jeep, throwing them both out and to the side of the road. Cratchett was unhurt, but my Dad was seriously hurt, transported to a field hospital and home, where he first saw his first son, who was just two. Dad reckoned that if they hadn't been drunk they both would have been killed--booze does loosen one up (Cratchett had emptied one of the Jeep's fuel containers and filled it with Calvados--look it up). He received a disability check from the Veterans Administration of about $120/month for the rest of his life, which dwindled with inflation as time went by and never did anything to ease the pain and/or discomfort in his legs and back. He rarely if ever complained (he was born and raised in Minnesota), and certainly never felt sorry for himself.

Oh, and he also received a Bronze Star for bravery, which he would never talk about. Most soldiers don't; the lines that separate courage, fear, stupidity, instinct, and terror are very fine and they all know that. One thing he did talk about was D-Day. We saw the movie The Longest Day together and he said it was fairly close to what he remembered, absent the blood and gore. The first twenty minutes of Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan, by the way, are exactly what he described to me on more than one occasion. I wish I could have seen that with him, too, though he would probably describe the rest of the movie and it's premise as a bit silly.
= = = = = = = = = == = =

So around 1971 Charlie decided to try long-hauling and moved his family and his tractor to Carthage, Missouri. Dad followed him and they both pulled loads to the four corners of the country until Dad died in 1979, after a second heart attack that left him alive for a few months but to which he succumbed in April of that year. He was not yet 60. (Kay followed him in death five years later and was buried with him in the veteran's cemetery in Springfield). We had a great wake at Charlie's house with Kay's sisters present. That was as fun as it could be, but before that, immediately after the funeral, where I touched my Dad's hand in the coffin and just said, "oh, Dad . . . ," I walked the streets of Carthage and cried at the unfairness of such a sweet man spending his life that way, never having realized the potential that goodness, the most beautiful handwriting I have ever seen, and a capacity for seeing the best in everyone ought to bring to anyone. At least he got to see my daughters as lovely young things, and his first-born married to a beautiful woman and on his way to professional success.

The final irony? When I arrived in Carthage after Dad died, Charlie and I went over to the company where they worked, hoping to cash in the insurance on Dad's truck so that Kay would have some financial security. We were shocked, appalled, you-name-it, to find that Dad had not paid for insurance on the truck and Kay would get nothing from its sale.

Oh, Dad . . .

Charlie and his wife took care of Kay until she died. Charlie left his long-time unhappy marriage a few years later, marrying one of his long-time road lovers--happy as a clam--when he found out a year later that he had cancer. He was dead in months, dying at one of the happiest times of his life. I loved Charlie almost as much as Dad, and remember playing poker with the both of them and a few of my friends on numerous occasions (Dennis remembers this. Terry would, too, were he still alive). Charlie was also a hell of a mechanic and replaced the u-joints on the only BMW I ever owned. I cried for Charlie when he died almost as much as I had for Dad; to my mind, they were one person. I think they felt the same way--they had been together since their days in Minneapolis after Dad's divorce in 1947.

= = = = = = = = =

After that divorce, I didn't see Dad often until moving to live with him nine years later. He was living in Seattle and then California, and would come back occasional summers to see his parents, his sisters and us boys. I remember him being at the door, my opening it and him hugging me, smelling of tobacco and aftershave, his Chevrolet coupe parked outside in the street. I only really remember this from a few times because it didn't happen much--long vacations like that were expensive and bus drivers don't make a lot of money.

I truly feel that he made up for those years, though, by helping me through high school, doing what he could (very little, as it happened) to help me through college, and by being a fine example of a man and a human being. He loved me and my wife unreservedly, doted on my daughters, was kind to all he met, and was unspeakably proud of what his first-born son had accomplished in the thirty-six years that he knew him.

If there were such a thing as a second chance at life, another go-round, no one would deserve such a thing more than he.

Daughters

Libby, me, Megan at my USC retirement party, April, 2007

I was recently asked at a workshop what my proudest achievement in life was. The young woman introducing me wanted something not scripted to say, I guess. My unhesitant response?

"My daughters," I said.
"Oh," she said.

I think she was expecting me to refer to something in the right hand column of this site, which would have been natural given the occasion, but no, not at my age and with my perspective.

Reams have been written about Daddies and Their Girls, along with poems without number, not all of them sappy. This is no attempt to correct or improve that body of work. It's a bit of prose about my girls. And I am not about to paint everything with a broad, rosy brush. There were difficult episodes as well as boring ones: how many diapers can you change and still think it's cute? How many baths can you preside over without a good book nearby? How many times can you read a bedtime story that both of you have heard a zillion times and not go a little bit postal? (I used to try to skip pages with Libby but she would look up at me, pull her thumb out her mouth with a thwack, and turn the page back. No fooling her. No cheating her, either. Meggie would often just smile and let me get away with it. Smart mini-woman). How many times can you cook Daddy Burgers and Fries or Mackeemonee Cheese and Hot Dogs without the three of you wanting to dump the whole thing? (That's when I started to learn how to cook. This was about 1983, after my wife bought me a wonderful book, The Husband's Cookbook. It has always disappointed me that my spaghetti sauce and pasta from scratch--Spaghetti Bolognese in Italian--pleased them far less than the canned stuff from the store. I perservered anyway and am glad now, living alone, that I did. They are, too. I still cook for them when I visit.)

But all the bad stuff aside, the thing of which I am most proud is that my girls still love me despite my obvious limitations and more-than-questionable recent decisions. We have a good time when we are together: easy with each other; no pressure to entertain; a real sense of history and family; accepting each other as we are. I have on a number of occasions lamented to them that wish I could have been paying more attention when they were young, been more in-the-now, gone on fewer retreats, tours, gigs. I have often said to them that my wife was two-thirds parent and one-third pro, while I was one-third parent and two-thirds pro, and that I felt bad about that.

Nonsense, they say. We had every entire summer in VW camping vans crawling up into the Sierra in third gear or traveling across the country, every Christmas vacation at home, two six-month sabbaticals abroad together (which Meggie credits to her wanderlust--resulting in a semester in Central America and Mexico, after which she arrived back home at LAX with cornrows, hairy legs and armpits, and Libby credits to her Fulbright year in Vienna, during which she met her husband and did things as yet unrevealed).

They attended great universities, have attained marketable skills, live their lives according to their own codes, are tough in the face of difficulties, delight in the moments of wonder, and are in all ways delightful, thoughtful people who judge no one--least of all their parents--and who are making their ways through life with as much joy as life may have to offer (the extent of which may be debatable, but that, too, is for later).

They are altogether wonderful people. I love them more than life itself (that may be a cliché, which I abhor, but there you are). This love gives them tremendous power over me, but I will have to concede that. Oh, and they are beautiful as well as smart and savvy.

If all I had in life were them alone, I would still be a lucky man.

Kissie, kissie, girls . . .

Mom

5.9.07—Mom

I can remember living in seven places with my mom and brother after my parents divorced. Only one of them had an indoor toilet. This was in Aitkin, Minnesota (pop. 1700), in the years from 1948-1956. I was aged 6-13. My mom was on welfare much of the time and I can remember eating ketchup sandwiches, also bread spread with margarine and sugar. In all fairness, I can also remember mom giving me a dime on summer Saturdays to go to the double-feature matinee. Admission was nine cents and the extra penny bought a sucker. When I got home, mom had made either chocolate chip cookies or cinnamon rolls for us boys to eat. Later, her night off was Thursday and she would take us boys to the Aitkin Coffee Shop for dinner, followed by a movie at the theater. It didn’t matter what the movie was; we went every Thursday night.

She tried, she really did.

Mom took in washing and ironing at first to make ends meet, later graduating to a nurse’s aide on the graveyard shift at an old folks home just outside of town, and in my final two years with them, to a job in a two-room school teaching grades one to four. I was in the other room, which contained grades five to eight. This was in a place God forgot thirty miles north of Aitkin called Swatara. It contained two churches, a general store/post office/gas station, and a small restaurant/bar directly across the street from our house where I would often go and drink cokes. Most of my schoolmates lived out in the country, so I was usually alone after school. I would check science fiction books out of the school library, buy a package of chocolate covered marshmallow cookies at the store, then eat them with milk while I read until mom and my brother came home. We usually had fried porkchops and mashed potatoes.

Between the cokes across the street and the cookies at home, I successfully destroyed many of my teeth in those two years. The books rescued me from reality: a house that was a mess and cold most of the winter because mom wanted to save money on fuel oil. I remember a birthday party for my brother (in January) where he and a few of his school mates stood around the stove eating ice cream and shivering.

I also remember cat turds on the closet floor and going to the outhouse in winter temperatures of –30 and –40. That’s Fahrenheit. Talk about freezing your ass off!

The three of us slept in one bed many winters, purely for warmth. Many winters, too, mom would get a country girl to live in town with us so the girl could stay in town and walk to school. In exchange for room and board, the girls cooked breakfast for us boys and generally took care of us while mom was at work. My brother Rolf slept with mom. I slept with the girls. No kidding. Innocent as hell, too, even though one of them was pretty cute. I still remember all three of those girls: Shirley, her younger sister Caroline, and Marjorie. Caroline was the cute one. I wonder if they remember me. Or are even alive, for that matter.

Back to Swatara. I hated that place mainly because all of my friends and school mates still lived in Aitkin, of course. It was a three-mile walk on the road out to the highway, where there was a bar/restaurant at the end. I could catch the bus there to Aitkin and I did this a number of times in those years, attending school dances in the gym, going to basketball games and seeing friends. Walking those three miles from the bus stop home on winter nights was really fun!

The last time I walked that road was in June of 1956 after I had coerced my mom to give me the $80 my dad had sent to come live with him in California. (I found out that the courts had said I could decide who I wanted to live with when I reached age thirteen. After watching the Mickey Mouse Club on the one channel we received in good weather, there was no doubt in my mind: California and Annette Funicello, here I come!) Mom had intercepted the letter and kept the money and the secret. After confronting her with this fact, she dug out the coffee can where she secreted the money she saved on fuel oil. She slapped me. I slapped her back. I took the four twenties Dad had sent, packed underwear, socks, and some other things, including a passel of science fiction paperbacks into a metal suitcase, and walked out. Mom and Rolf waved goodbye from the window; my brother was crying; I will never forget that.

I walked to the bus stop, bought a Greyhound ticket to Los Angeles at Fred’s Café in Aitkin (long since burned down), stayed with my uncle Emil one final night (I stayed with him often when visiting from Swatara), watched Hitchcock's The Man Who Knew Too Much during the layover in Minneapolis, then traveled four consecutive days and five nights to Los Angeles, boarding a bus there to El Monte, where I failed to dial the phone successfully (we didn’t have rotary phones in Aitkin; the three of us had no phone, period), spent my last .75 on a cab to my dad’s house.

++++++++++++++++++

Mom secreted money her whole life. While divesting herself of her worldly goods in preparation for her move to the Home, she gave away her Bible. The man she gave it to later came back and gave her the $600 she had stuffed in it. Imagine that! Wouldn’t happen here and now. I’ve got to say, too, that mom supported herself her entire life in that town, at first cleaning houses for years, then working kitchen cleanup in the Aitkin Coffee Shop, finally baking cinnamon rolls at the Aitkin Bakery, walking to work at 330 in the morning. Before she could go to the Home, she had to get rid of her money. At one point, she had as much as $30,000, most in the bank, thank goodness. I got 2500 and what was left she put in trust for my girls, who got around $10k each when mom died in October 2004. Remarkable, yes?

Especially since Mom was crazy. They called them “nervous breakdowns” then. She was hospitalized in the mental facility at Moose Lake when I was very young and I went to live on the farm with my grandpa and grandma. (That was fun. I loved that farm; Dylan Thomas’s Fern Hill reminds me of those days, smells, sounds). She was hospitalized again after I had left. She had closed herself and Rolf into that hellhole and her brothers had to come and drag them out, sending mom to the Ha-Ha Hotel for the second time, and my brother to a series of foster homes and finally the pediatric clinic at the University of Minnesota. That sad story is for later.

“Nervous breakdown” in mom’s case turned out to be manic-depression--what is now called bi-polar disorder. Her parents and brothers and sisters just thought she was “ornery.” Most thought, as I later did, that she was simply crazy. Thank God may Her name ever be praised for the advent of lithium, which allowed her to stay on an even keel for the rest of her life, support herself, and stay in touch with her children and grandchildren. She was a burden to no one. She arranged her own burial plot, tombstone, casket, and funeral—down to pallbearers (one of whom she had outlived), who was to sing and play, and what they were to sing and play. She was 86 when she died, having lived in the Home for 10 years, holding down her post next to the mailbox daily. She had seen her grand-daughters and son-in-law two summers before she died. She looked at my older daughter, Libby, and asked, “who are you?”


My eulogy for her was lost when this computer crashed, but I know that my opening line was this:

Mom did not have an easy life.

Talk about understatement . . .