A royal mess…

By this point it was all to be so simple.

This blog would get back to its very roots: the whys and wherefores and joys of letters.  For months I looked forward to precisely this time of summer to kick off a big push for written pages.  The 80+ posts since January of this year were part of a concerted build up to lead parents to mount a campaign to write to their children in college.  And if their kids were already out of school, it was okay to keep writing, too.

The blueprint was to encourage you to tip off parents that this blog might help pave their way toward some week-to-week non-electronic contact with their studious children.  In post after post they’d get the inside scoop that took me so long to learn the hard way; how to start, what to say, how to organize thoughts, etc.  Moms and dads would rally to the cause and all but abandon their Blackberrys and iPhones as they warmed – quickly – to the idea that words on paper, once abandoned as passe and hopelessly old school, was a concept whose appeal and effectiveness has come full circle.

But my situation made a royal mess of those plans.  My attention instead remains fixed on the here and now.  It has to be.  I wonder this morning how Ellen and Reid will take to all of this sour news.  As it is, I’ll meander to my college origins in the not-so-distant future, but not at this instant.  If – not when – my job search ends, then it will be Katy bar the door.

—————–

Another Wednesday.  Another old letter.

October 11, 2004

EB and Reid:

First, news on the Scooter front.  He was pretty lively this morning compared to the past couple of days.  Not quite his old self, but he’s eating some prescription canned food like there’s no tomorrow and he was running out in the backyard when I let him out an hour ago.  We’ll just have to wait and see.  But it was good to see him romping again, even if it was for only a few feet.  He was back to eating peas and TP, too.

Our weekend was pretty good.  Had Holly and Dana over Saturday night for dinner.  We all sat around the firepit bundled up in our fleeces and sleeping bags.  It was fun.  Dana need to down a bit of wine and laugh after his dad passed away a few days ago.  That firepit is really great.  We burned those old chairs from the original dining room set at the old house.  The _________’s thought it was funny to burn furniture and wondered if the couch was next.

Played golf Saturday, but there’s no need to bring up the ugly part of the weekend.  Man, Nebraska really got thumped by Texas Tech, 70-10.  Worst loss in Nebraska history.  I’d give your uncle a call but I want him to cool off for a few days before taking his pulse on things.  He’ll be cranky, no doubt.

Went out for about 200 miles yesterday with Scott _______.  The leaves and stuff were great and the Softail ran good.  Also went fishing in a farm pond with Mark __________, and caught a ton of huge crappies and bass.  When is the last time I fished in a farm pond?  Never, I think.  The cows in the field came on down to check us out and licked the road salt off Mark’s SUV.  They left a lot of ‘calling cards’ around his car that we had to be careful not to step in.

Off to NY later this week.  Then on to Chicago for the weekend with your mom and hopefully you guys.  What the heck is “Reading Break”?  Isn’t that just an excuse to get out of school and goof off?  Sounds like fun, if you ask me.

You guys can’t believe how clean the house is.  Your mom has been on a cleaning tear, vacuuming everything in sight and straightening out what was once cluttered.  She even vacuumed the closets.  That’s going a bit too far.  The woman has gone off the deep end.  Be sure to ask her about the new cabinet doors in the kitchen.  Ask her about the measurements.

Lots of work these days on the writing front.  My writer’s bloc has subsided a bit.  The trip to Oregon must’ve really sapped me because I was just flat-out tired for a couple of weeks.  Now I’m in the groove a little bit.  Emphasis on little.

Someone stuck a Bush/Chaney sign in the yard Saturday night.  I threw it in the street.  If it was paper, I would’ve used it to wipe.

Well, enough for now.  Gotta go.  You guys be good and I hope to see you in the Windy City.

A walk down the aisle…

You’ve read a near-unending avalanche of sad messages these past few months.  It’s time to throw in something to lift our collective spirits.

Ellen celebrated her first wedding anniversary just a few weeks ago.  I intended to post this letter to mark her first year as a bride, but other events correctly trumped the best laid plans.

This letter, however, was never mailed.  I carried it with me on the plane ride to Des Moines and quietly slid it under her hotel door the morning of her wedding.  Daughters and their dads have many opportunities for special moments in life, but few can top a joyous walk down the aisle.

—————

June 15, 2009

Ellen: I must admit that when you were a peanut I never once imagined walking you down the aisle.  Now that time has come and you will be a beautiful, exuberant and composed (okay, let’s reserve judgment on the composed part for a little while longer) bride.

In the grand scheme of things, what all of this says is that you are mature, you are ready, and you have everything it takes to begin a loving family.  For a long time, you have been incredibly responsible in just about every aspect of your life; work, play, finances, and more.  If anything, that entitles you to the day you are about to enjoy and treasure.  That you took your sweet time on this deal says a lot about who you are and how you approach things.

Your mom and I, and Reid and your grandparents and Nancy and Gordie and Kristin and Jeff and Ralph and Gayle, Joe and Andy, are incredibly proud of you.  As you take that longest walk that will be over so quickly, be sure to soak in the admiring views and stares because what it means is that people love and respect you.  And that is both friends and family alike.  Just look at the “response rate” on your invitations; if that isn’t some sort of record, I don’t know what is.  That is the sure sign of how people ultimately view you and Tim.  They want to be with you both on your day of triumph.  Not all couples can say that.

In no way shape or form do I view this as losing a daughter, but rather, it is gaining a family that includes a still-wonderful daughter and a great, great son-in-law.  That is probably the best any dad and mom can ever hope for.  Your mom and I could not be happier for you and your new life.  Nothing I will ever experience will make me smile any more or make me any happier than walking you down the center line and then answering Angie: “Her mother and I.”

Way to go, kid.  We love you.

Tying together loose ends…

Among the byproducts of recent events is a mountain of old photos and memorabilia.  I mean a literal heap of pre-1900 photos (including a couple of daguerreotypes), incredibly preserved full color pre-WWI postcards and the like.  (Note: mark your photos lightly on the back so you know who’s in each shot.  We were reduced to guessing who was whom.)  It seems we are swimming in family artifacts and history, but looking at some of the yellowed clippings, we have some shady characters in our past.

Maybe somewhere down the road Ellen and Reid will add the weekly letters to the stack.  Who in the hell would want them I don’t know, but they’ll have them anyway.  As we sorted through the items last week the conversation always turned to context; what does this artifact mean and to whom, when was this photo taken and what were their lives like way back when, and how do we link relatives to relatives and tie all those loose ends together?  Perhaps the pages will help pull our loose pieces together when the time comes.

——————

So it is another Wednesday.  Here’s a page from an earlier decade.

September 14, 2006

EB/Reid: Well, I’ve been here a month and so far so good.  I’d knock on wood but my office is totally plastic.  The people here are good, hard workers, and the town is a lot of fun.  Traffic is absolutely bonkers but that’s just the way it goes.  And it rains a lot, and when it does it just keeps a’comin down.  But the music scene is really good.  Saw a guy last night from Austin, Texas and his little band was just fabulous.  Will go see Aimee Mann next Thursday night in NoDa (short for north Davidson neighborhood) which is also the arts district.

Been in the throes of trying to buy furnishings.  Will head about 70 miles north to High Point, North Carolina this weekend.  It is supposed to be the furniture capital of the U.S.  We’ll see.  Need to get a bedroom set first, and other rooms will follow from there.  The direction I’m headed is toward Mission style or what they call transitional furniture.  You got the photos so you see the sort of space I have to deal with.  It will be weird to not have a yard to more and a garden to tend.  They say there’s a lot of container gardening down here, so that’s what I’ll do next summer.  At least there will be a few tomatoes.  Already, I have a bamboo plant and something called a ‘ZZ’ plant which apparently you can’t kill.  So with my green thumb, that should work fine.

It’s hard to be away from Des Moines but things will just move forward here.  If you guys can swing it, come on down here for a week or a long weekend.  I’ll get plane tickets for you.  EB, head to Des Moines for Thanksgiving.  I’ll drive over from Omaha after T-Day with Grandma and Grandpa.  Keep in touch with them because they worry they won’t be able to see you.  Uncle Ralphie is flipping out over Nebraska football (Reid, they play #4 USC this weekend) and he thinks of little else.

So Reid, how is Oulu?  Give me your exact street address and I’ll GoogleEarth it.  (My new address is _________________, Charlotte, NC.  You’ll see it’s south of downtown.)  How is Finland?  Looks pretty cool.  What’s the name of the ocean that separates Finland from Sweden?  What do they eat over there, and are the people nice to you?  What’s the school like, and your classes?  Met any nice people?  How about the language?  You must at least know please and thank you and ‘how much does this cost?’

EB, it’s odd to hear you talk about it already being autumn in Minnesota.  Do you like it up there?  How’s Tim’s job going?  How do you feel about substituting?  Sounds like the apartment job is working out pretty nicely.  Sure wish I could come up for a visit.  Let me check plane tickets.  Can’t be super expensive, can it?

None of my stuff is down here yet.  Still sitting in storage in Adel and Des Moines.  Your mom has stuff piled up in the basement for the movers to pick up, including the Harley.  Can’t wait for it to come down here.  West of here about 100 miles is Asheville, NC, and that’s the gateway to the Blue Ridge Mountains.  Was up there a couple of weekends ago, and the roads and scenery are as stunning as any I’ve seen.  The highest point in North Carolina is only 6,600 feet so what they call the mountains are entirely covered in oaks, maples, pines and ash trees.  Kind of odd but very pretty.  Lots of trout fishing (EB, don’t tell Tim).

Well, gotta go.  You both be good, work hard, and be sure to communicate to Grandma and Grandpa.  Hope to see you soon EB, and Reid, your sister and I are talking about a visit to you later this fall.  Make sure we know what dates you are not available.

Now, about the receivers…

Enough about the sender.  How about those on the receiving end?

I do wonder from time to time what people think when they find a letter from me in the mailbox.   To be honest, no permission to send is ever asked.  Things just sort of arrive and the readers are left to their own devices.  (It’s a different kettle of fish with Ellen and Reid.  They know what’s coming and why.)  To tip people off would be akin to asking someone if its okay for me to send an email.  It just isn’t unfeasible.  My version of don’t ask, don’t tell, I suppose.

I’ve never once asked if what I sent was received and, more importantly, how it was received from their point of view.  Rather than point to the letter, the page is allowed to stand (or fall) on its own merit.  Folks can take the contents for what the few hundred words are worth.  The presumption here is that their thinking ranges from ‘why this, why now?’ to this is okay or maybe it’s nice to get something in the mail that isn’t a bill.  If it piques their interest for a couple of minutes, so much the better.  Far be it for me to assume it is of importance to them.  Everything is, after all, in the eye of the beholder.

———————

Here is last week’s letter to Ellen and Reid.

June 14, 2010

Ellen/Reid: The only way to take things in regards to your grandparents is one step, and one day, at a time.  Things seem to be stabilizing a little bit in that right now there are no more planned moves, no more pulling the two of them hither and yon.  They each have their own rooms and that really meets each of their needs.

Your grandfather is in good spirits given his condition.  In some ways the nine days there were very good.  Our conversations were just very conversational.  I think that to talk about things openly is good in lieu of dancing around or avoiding the topic.  It was refreshing to him and cathartic for me.  We got a lot done; the service mostly mapped out and some of the other arrangements in order for casket and clothing (blue blazer with an Air Force lapel pin, white shirt, gray slacks).  When I walked in the first day, he handed me a legal pad with his wishes for pallbearers (Reid, that means you and Tim), honorary pallbearers, etc.  It was surreal in a lot of ways.  But there was no place else I would rather be for those days.

He is sleeping a lot.  He’s not many weeks from major abdominal surgery on top of his cancer.  We’d be beat, too.  He does not seem in a lot of pain although his breathing is labored only because of the fluid build-up (edema).  The head nurse there, Erin, was very good with him.  She walked him through what was happening and why, and he was very understanding.  It’s just the normal progression of the disease.

Your grandmother is having a hard time with all this.  She doesn’t quite understand why they can’t be together in the same room and it makes her frustrated and angry.  As your grandfather and I both said time and again, it’s not her but her ailment.  Still, I twice lost my temper with her.  Once was not 30 seconds after Erin had laid out the candid scenario for him. Your grandmother came into his room, very angry with him – let’s go home, you’re not sick, etc. – and the dichotomy of the two situations just couldn’t be further apart.  But while it rolled off his back, I took it to heart.  She turned her walker around and bolted out of the room and I just lost it.  She and I had quite a set-to out in the hallway.  That was my one regret during the entire time in Omaha.

In fairness, we made her move very quickly without her knowing much about it.  If we had told her she’d be in a new space, and potentially locked up for two weeks with no visitors, it would have been very, very tough for her.  My cousin Eric and his son Klint helped move everything while my mom was kept occupied.  When the time came, I gave her personal sitter the high sign that it was time to take her to her new lodgings.  Ostensibly, the rules are that once a new resident is in the memory wing, there is no leaving the unit, plus no visitors, for 14 days to help them acclimate to the new surroundings.  But your uncle and I prevailed on the staff to bend the rules, and they agreed.  Grandma and grandpa have seen each other regularly.  It’s hard to watch them separate when the time comes.  But there are glimmers for her.  She said she likes her new room – one of the best in the memory wing – and she likes all the photos of you guys and Andy and Joe.

My uncle Henry and his wife Mary were driven down from the Twin Cities by their son Tim.  It was a highlight of the week for him to see his sister, your grandmother.  Henry is an incredibly dynamic person, but he has his own issues: early onset Alzheimer’s.  We took them all out to eat except for your grandfather who stayed behind.  Family time doesn’t get much more precious than this.  I don’t know if Henry and Mary will make it back for the service, so it was the right time for everyone to say their goodbyes.  It was a great moment, and it’s what your grandpa truly deserved.  It’s just a process that rolls onward to the conclusion we expect it to be.

A dose of creativity…

Man (and woman) does not live by bread alone.  The analogy is that we need a creative outlet to counter-balance the stress of whatever else consumes us; work, daily living, and then again maybe more work, etc.

Your tonic may be to dabble in art or cook up a perfect storm or some other unmentioned productive relaxant.  To paraphrase Spike Lee, we gotta have it.  Cavemen mixed berry juice and blood to scribble on smooth stone walls.  They knew it, they felt it, they had a certain intuition there was something more than subsisting as hunter gatherers.  So should we.

Mine happens to be writing and as you’ve seen here, there’s a long way to go to even claim a loose grip on this art.  But half the fun is in the trying.  My friend Mort (http://www.churnhead.blogspot.com/) in ATL knows this all too well.  Ghost Dance is his outlet, and he’s been pecking away at the chapters for a while now.  There’s even creativity to be found in my parent’s predicament; i.e. reportage and accurate recounting of events for Ellen and Reid, the sharing of emotions and tears, and creation of some lasting memory that perhaps the kids will set aside for later years.

Point being that a dose of creativity never hurt anyone.  No matter how downhill my day has gone or how miserable the confluence of events might be, there is always the creative element to look forward to.  Sure, the result may be far, far removed from high art, but it’s the doing that counts.

——————

Thankfully, there is another Friday that allows me to write to my ailing parents.  Here is today’s letter that’s fresh in the mail.

June 19, 2010

Mom & Dad: Summer officially has landed with a damp thud and it feels like the proverbial 800 lb. gorilla that will sit anywhere it damn well wants to.  Hot (90s) and humid (off the charts) and in general miserably uncomfortable.  My tomato seems to like it and although the varietal may be a Better Boy, the fruits are like Small Boys.  Just don’t seem to get real big.  But it’s a far cry from last year when I harvested one – 1 – that was the size of a golf ball.

Ralph called me yesterday before they took off for California to see the grandkids.  He was just checking in.  We haven’t talked since which is the first time in a long time that even a few hours has passed without us touching base on things.

Ellen and Reid are doing fine.  Just think, one year ago tomorrow you guys were in Des Moines for Ellen’s wedding.  It’s just hard to believe that amount of time has passed.  She got a bit of good news this week: she has an interview early next week with a school where she might teach Hmong children to read.  She’s excited and my fingers are already crossed for her.  Really hope she gets it.  Reid got some really good news in that his ad agency has named him the lead for the Hampton Inn account plus some other beefy work.  So his worries about leaving the agency are somewhat abated although the Hampton work will dissipate later this year when the account bolts to another shop.  It’s the way of the ad world but it is a ray of bright news for your grandson.  He’s really excited.

Dad, I came across a stack of photos from years ago in the bottom drawer of the bureau in the spare bedroom with the twin beds.  I have demanded your other son trot those out to you for identification.  Looks like your dad and Mary, plus other people I don’t know.  There’s also a great shot of you and Hank in front of what must be the boarding house where you guys lived in Lincoln.  It was great fun to rummage through that stuff before leaving town.

The staff there have been pretty good about keeping us up to speed on things.  The Hospice lady has called a couple of times and she seems to think you are holding your own, which we take as good news.  You sound better on the phone.  This deal about getting mom to the dentist is a little disconcerting because they said they would transport her – and you – to any appointments you need.  We’ll get it worked out.  I’m glad you two get to spend some time together even though in the best of worlds it’s not the ideal any of us would hope for.  I suppose some time together is better than none.

Tiger is showing his stripes at the U.S. Open.  He was bitching opening about the bad greens, and that would seem to be far below his station to whine about things.  The TV commentators are riding him like a rented mule, as they should.  The bum.

Undermining our focus…

Try as I might to strike a balance between populist hi-tech and my brand of admitted low-tech, along comes news that bursts my bubble.

Like this headline in Tuesday’s Charlotte Observer: “Plugged in, but not engaged.”

In short, scientists say we cannot process the constant deluge that pours through the information portals.  It seems our “ability to focus is being undermined by bursts of information.”  Even die-hard multi-taskers who profess their gadgetry makes them more productive have, on the contrary, even higher thresholds of trouble focusing and shutting out irrelevant information.  Hence, they feel still more stress.  Even for those moments addicts are removed from their electronic lifelines, the inability to stay on point persists.

Little wonder we bite off more than we can chew.  People consumed three times as much daily information in 2008 as they did in 1960.  Then there is our compulsive nature.  Today’s workers check email nearly 37 times per hour.  The findings are damning.

All this is a bit of salve for me.  Already, my mental processors have formed the backbone of Friday’s letter to my parents.  Topics – their health, the concern of family members, etc. – have been proposed, then mulled over to be accepted or discarded.  Paragraphs are constructed, reconstructed and then rearranged.  All of this is absent of distractions that are not of my own making.  Rather than my attention becoming diverted or otherwise undermined, my focus on this single page remains relatively intact.

——————-

Today is Wednesday, and given the spate of recent sorry events, here is a letter to Ellen and Reid from happier times.

February 28

Reid and EB:

“Flurries”, they said.  It’ll only be “flurries.”  Yeah, well let me tell you if I end up shoveling 4”-6” of “flurries”, this will be on red-hot da-da.   The snow is falling and it’s falling hard.

By the time you receive this, however, we will be into the widely acknowledged and all-important psychological start of spring.  In theory, that is.

Remember the book we read over and over and over to you guys when you were tiny tots: the terrible-awful-no good-very bad day?  This is one of those days.  In fact, it surpassed terrible before we reached 9:00 a.m. and abutted up against very bad a few minutes before noon.  The title of my new column was already registered by another party (hmmm, by a New Yorker just days after I leaked the name of the column) and now I’ve got to arrive at other names and go through all the legal diatribes – not to mention legal costs – associated therein.  And the New Yorkers won’t return my calls.  No one returns my calls, not even Grandma and Grandpa.  That’s how bad it’s gotten.

Actually, this is just a continuation of the back luck/misfortune/generalized woe that started last week.  You know all about us missing our flight to San Francisco.  It was all my fault.  I thought – swore – that my ticket said 2:00 departure.  Then, when your mom discovered at 11:45 as we stood in the kitchen that it was actually wheels up at 11:45 and not 2:00, I swore again.  Loudly and often.  What a monumental goof-up.  Totally my bad.  Believe me, it was one quiet car ride to the airport.  Instead of getting there early for a nice dinner and walking tour, we went stand-by on separate planes and arrived at separate times.  The moral of the story: look at your tickets.

Once we got there, it didn’t get a heck of a lot better.  We had virtually no walking around time, and I blew $450 on a round of golf at the Olympic Club – greens fee, rental car, caddie (plus tip) – that I though would be comped.  “A fool and his money are soon parted,” I always say.  Look no further for living proof.

We did have one adventure.  It was a dinner theatre show called Teatro Zizzanno.  Hard to describe, but it was a combination meal-vaudeville-musical review at some funky spot down on one of the piers.  We laughed out loud almost the whole time.  The talent from singers to jugglers to performers was really good.

But we got back in good order on Friday without any further difficulties.  But I wish we could’ve stayed through the weekend so we could’ve at least seen the sights.

With spring break on the horizon, you guys better get your acts together in terms of rides home and the like.  Any and all of your friends are welcome to stay here on the way through town.  After my $450 golf junket, I’m staying here.

Ciao.  Adieu.  Adios.  Ta-ta.  See ya.  You get the picture.

A trove of family artifacts…

I’m back on home soil – North Carolina, that is – and most of the past week has been a blur.

My dad has been only too glad to share historical points that have eluded me over the years.  He seems to enjoy the diversion (me, too) and the instructional chance for his grandkids.  We either set aside the information now or we lose the chance.  What has been gleaned is beginning to re-surface in the weekly letter.  My guess is this ‘knowledge sharing’ will go on for some time to come.

My brother and I have uncovered a trove of family artifacts; photos from as far back as early last century on through the ’40s, my dad’s early report cards (“we’re glad to have him here as a student” said one teacher), his war records including his pay stubs ($3 extra for a B-17 mission is hardly hazard pay), my mother’s baby book created in the late 1920s and early 1930s, plus more.  When I was younger, I would not have given this much of a second thought.  We can look much of this up online, but it’s far more fun to have it in your hands.

———————-

Here is last week’s letter to Ellen and Reid.

June 6, 2010

Ellen/Reid: I’m at the keyboard of your grandparent’s PC.  The house is pretty much empty in the major rooms, all of it having been moved to the new spot out in west Omaha.

Your grandparents seem to have adapted grudgingly to their new surroundings.  Your grandfather is, I think, more okay with things than your grandmother who asks me over and over “when can we go home?”  She has her moments of clarity and her moments of agitation.  She is in the current room that we signed up for before your grandfather had his intestinal surgery.  Grandpa is in a completely different recovery wing.  But we move her on Tuesday into the ‘memory unit’ for those with Alzheimer’s, dementia, or stroke-related memory loss owing to her being found roaming outside last week.  It’s going to be a battle because they require that she stay in the contained unit – no potential for escape – for a solid two weeks to become used to her surroundings.  The rules say no visitors.  It will be tough for her.  Your grandpa knows this will come down and he acknowledges, too, the difficulty.  He can use the time to rest up and tend to his own needs.  We’ve told both of them time and again that at least they are in the same facility.  They limit the amount of items she can have in her new room.  Only a certain number of clothes, towels, etc.  She was short on bras, and trust me you haven’t lived until you step up to a check out line at Target to buy your 84 year old mother two 36-D bras.  She did see some of your wedding photos, Ellen, and that was a moment of joy for her.

Your grandpa isn’t faring too well.  He’s retaining a lot of liquid – edema, they call it – and that’s a residue of both the cancer and the bowel surgery.  He’s very weak, and there’s no way in hell he could have possibly card for your grandmother.  He slept a fair amount yesterday and we watched some golf on TV.  He has no appetite and at most can eat a couple of bites from an already small portion on his plate.  They have ice cream available 24/7 which I try to tempt him with but he will have none of it.  I gain weight, he loses it.  It was heart wrenching to watch the nurse undress him tonight to put on his PJs.  He literally is skin and bones.

We’ve talked at length about his final arrangements.  He wants a military internment whereby an honor guard does the final salute followed by a memorial service at their church.  We picked out his clothes and put a timetable to the service.  We talked about the main points for his obituary.  He’s trying to prepare us as best he can.  It’s odd being in a chair next to his bed as we calmly talk about this although it is probably a good thing.  There are moments of great difficulty for me but for the most part I’ve stayed composed.

I’ve taken a lot of notes on family history stuff, mainly on his side of the ledger, and much of it was unknown to me so I’m glad to have asked question after question.  Your grandpa’s family is English-Scottish-Irish.  Seems his side of the family has a sordid past.  One of your unfortunate forebears was unfortunately hanged in England for stealing a horse.  Once that episode passed, the rest of them made their way to the New World as indentured servants in the Carolinas.  There is no doubt as to your Southern roots; your grandfather’s dad (my grandpa Ed) had the middle name of Yancey.  You don’t get more Southern than that.  Your grandpa’s mother, Mary (my grandmother) was born in 1887 in a soddy in rural Nebraska not too far from Omaha.  A soddy is just that; a home made of cut sod with each slab piled atop another to form a wall.  Quite common in the plains states.  Your grandpa is not certain how they met but she and Ed married in 1918.  He ran an electrical company down on 13^th street in south Omaha that I remember going to as a kid.  I can still see the narrow, floor-to-ceiling shelving that was loaded with wire and gear in a dusty, dark building.  (You’d think an electrical company would be bright and white.)  If you ever see turn-of-the-century photos of old stores, this was it.  I’ll put all of this down on paper at some point relatively soon.  We’re not certain of your grandmother’s side – the Andersen’s – other than a big chunk of it is Danish.  Your grandmother’s brother, Henry, will be here tomorrow from Oregon to make his final farewell and I plan to ask him about some of this past so at least we will have some information to go on.

Keep your phones on so I can keep you abreast of events.  This is just another element of life that all of us must deal with as best we can.

The stuff of letters…

Dad and his MGD.

——————————–

The kiss

—————————–

This week in Omaha has been close to an out-of-body experience.  Is this really happening?

I’m afraid it is.  The old boy deserves one more tip of the hat because in his readiness, he has prepared the rest of us.

To the degree he can tolerate the discussion – sandwiched around plenty of nap breaks – my dad and I have talked candidly and at length about family, his life-shaping WW II experience as a 20-year-old bombardier, my mother’s health predicament, and, of course, the conclusion to his own health situation.  We have mapped out the fine points to his service, he’s chosen pallbearers and opined on key points for his obituary.  He gave a gentle nod to a tasteful display of his war photo and a few medals, some of which were discovered buried in a drawer in my mother’s bureau – as we moved her this week to a memory unit.

All of this is the stuff of letters.  Reid, bless his heart, is particularly taken aback by the goings on.  He is near-insistent that what I have gleaned become at some point an official part of the Bradley lore.  I aim to do just that.  Much of the precious information will be transferred via letters for some time to come.

I know of no better way to give the kids an honest representation of their grandfather’s life and times.  Some of it is already known to me; yet a new trove of family history – some of it somewhat troubling – has bubbled to the surface.  We had some dear, dear relatives travel great distances to pay their respects and much of the bedside talk turned on still more family points worth saving – and sharing.  Really, we do it now or it is lost.  It won’t be lost if I have anything to say about it.

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I wrote to my father early this morning, the result of which was mailed to him today at his new address.  My hope is he reads it to mom when he visits her in the memory-assistance wing.

June 11, 2010

Mom and dad: Of all the ways anyone can spend all their weeks, this week was the way I would spend it.  This was everything I’d hope the time with you would be.  Short of a different outcome, I would not have changed a thing.

It seems to me the one thing that is coming out of all of this is that we are remaining a family to the very end.  Reid pointed out to me that lots of families have fractious relationships that, for one reason or another, are beyond repair and that we at least have the good sense to tell each other we love each other – and we can actually mean it.

Unbeknownst to either of you, I snuck in a few camera phone shots of you two lovebirds smooching and sent them ASAP to all the grandkids.  So in an instant they had the latest and greatest images from L________.

Dad, I told Ellen and Reid and Joe of your attitude (and I’ll do the same when I talk to Andy), and it really struck home with those three.  They all love both of you dearly.  You probably are not aware of this, but as they’ve gotten older, they seem to hold you in that much more esteem.  Ellen said that her generation would wear their pain on the sleeve much more than you let on.  We were trying to figure out why that was, and the only thing we could attribute it to was you guys simply came from a tough generation that saw a Depression and a Great War.  The rest of us are way too soft.  If only we could exhibit the strength both of you are showing right now.

Dad, you have been the best of dads.  Without exaggeration, if your other son and I could be half the man, and father, you turned out to be, well, it would be a pinnacle.  That hill is a little steep for us to climb so we’ll each have to get by on a small percentage of the lessons you pass on to us.  It bothers me that only now do I think of all those times I didn’t pay attention to what you did and how you did it and why you did it.  The same goes for your other son.  Why the hell didn’t we have the brains to realize what was there before us in front of our eyes?

But that’s what made this week so great.  We simply had the chance to talk and be.  Your stories about the Bradleys and the Andersens and the Allingtons and the Ramseys and the Yanceys are what none of us knew.  (Honestly, Reid hung on every word when I relayed what was archived in pages of notes.  He’s becoming something of a family history buff.)

What goes on from here is anyone’s guess.  We’ll leave it in the trusting hands of a higher power.  That is pretty comforting to know.  We’ve had our share of good times for a long time now, but what went on this week surpasses what has gone on before.  It may sound a little odd at this juncture, but in some ways this week was the best of times.  Like you said, what else are we going to do about it?  You both have paved a road that my brother and I will be only too glad to follow, even if we can’t fill your footprints, if you know what I mean.

Of errors…

Update: The phone has been the primary means to keep the kids connected about their grandfather (hospice is now administering to him) and their grandmother (now in a ‘memory loss’ unit) in Omaha.  Next Monday’s letter to the duo will detail most events.

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A note came in Monday night about common errors in the last few letters and repetitive repeat wording in recent posts.  I should strive for more accuracy said the reader.  Fair enough although I will never claim to be a by-the-book grammarian or world-class speller.  You know the national spelling bee that just concluded?  I would’ve made an abrupt (and deserved) exit in the early rounds on some word as simple as s-e-q-u-e-s-t-e-r.  Those kids would’ve beat me like a bass drum.

Unlike a lot of writers, criticism doesn’t phase me.  In fact I appreciate quality sniping and educated second guessing.  Good editors earn their pay; their job is to make things cleaner, crisper, more understandable.  Unfortunately I have no editor.  This is a one man operation.  Actually the sort of creative writing I espouse needs no editor.  Letter writer’s get a free pass.  The blog is sort of like my weekly output; if I see an error it is corrected on the spot.  If something slips by me – and obviously it often does – no sleep is lost.  Spell check?  Never.

If I get hung up on a misused word here and a gross error in spelling there, I’d never get anything done.  So to my erstwhile Monday evening quarterback, my apologies.  I’d like to say it won’t happen again, but to say otherwise would make my nose grow longer than it already is.

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Wayback Wednesday.  As per the custom, here is a letter plucked from the archives.

June 1

EB:

Well, it was a tough day on the old home front as you can imagine.  Taking Scooter to Dr. Bob’s for the final time was one of the toughest things I’ve had to do.  If Bob had disagreed, which he didn’t, we would have had other decisions to make.

He was such a good little guy.  He must’ve known what was coming, because he stayed close but you could tell that somehow, it was okay with him.  When you look at Scoot’s last year, it wasn’t the best.  His old habit of running when the doorbell rang, or tooling around the back yard just weren’t him.  He had a tough time up and down stairs, and his days were spent sleeping in his kennel.  Nothing seemed to bring him joy, except maybe an ice cube or a piece of taboo food like bacon or chicken.

It was over in seconds, literally.  He yelped when they put a catheter in.  When the injection was made, his head dropped to the table and I could feel his little heart stop.  That was it.  I kissed him and petted him one final time and told him we loved him.  Then I stepped out the door.  But as I broke into tears, I went back into the office and gave him one more pat and kiss and hug.  I haven’t cried or sobbed like that in a long, long time.  Tim sent us a lovely email.   That was nice.

Little dogs like Scooter exist only to be around their families, like you and mom and Reid.  That’s what he was made for: to be around people.  Your mom says he’s with other Bischons now, and it was the right thing to do.  She says we’ll always have his picture, and you and Reid will always have your memories of a playful little dog that liked to bark when the doorbell rang, run around like crazy in the back yard on 104^th, and try new tricks that you taught him (few as they were.)  Of course, we’ll all miss him.  He was a member of the family.

Well, now it’s on to other chapters, like working.  It has to feel good to get a call from W_____ Township, to know that more than one district wanted your services.  That has to feel good and fulfilling.   Too bad they both couldn’t have been made at the same time, but the job world doesn’t work like that.  Take the bird in the hand, I always say.

A company that I visited at the kitchen and bath show in Las Vegas sent us a spiffy new, high-tech/high-end sauté pan, which we’ll be sending your way.  It’s pretty heavyweight and nice.  Hey your kitchen gadgetry has to start somewhere.

N______ is getting geeked up about the move to the retirement village.  She’ll be fine once she’s there, but it’s hard leaving her one and only house.

Took out another bunny today.  Stay away from the lettuce.

Let’s all move on, remember Scooter for what he was and what he remains: a good friend and a dear memory.  Later, honey.

Family values & Earl Grey…

Politicians have their brand of ‘family values’.   We have ours.

One of the great things about a regular letter is every page helps you (in this case, me) fill the kids in on what’s important to our clan.  Once they’ve flown the coop to college or the working world and are absent of family kitchen table  banter during meals (jeez, what a pie-in-the-sky dream: family banter at meal time) there is a greatly reduced opportunity to pick up verbal scraps about what rocks your world.  A chunk of potential dialogue and chance to shape and share opinions dwindles away once they are no longer around.

If you become a regular at letters your children can glean your leanings over time.  For instance, Ellen and Reid ought to know this about my views if they’ve paid a smidgen of attention:

• The environment is important.  I recycle virtually every scrap of paper and bit of plastic.  The trash men love me for my light loads.  I want the munchkins to respect their world.
• I tilt just a tad to the left politically.  I come from the Watergate era when a certain party butchered the notion of public trust.  We have never been the same.  If we have a Tea Party, it usually involves Earl Grey.
• Be respectful of other people.  They can have their views and you can have yours.  To be polite, civil and nice never hurt anyone.

You will find no endless and heavy-handed paragraphs devoted to my views.  They are of the age of majority and they can make up their own minds.  But they deserve to know the building blocks in their backgrounds and where their dad is coming from.  Frost’s road less traveled has many exit ramps and Ellen and Reid are free to find a detour of their choosing.  With a little help from their old man, of course.

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There was no letter mailed to my parents this week.  Drat.  Their whereabouts and the facility they would end up in was in too much of a state of flux.  But I am off to Omaha today (Friday) and I’ll hand carry what they need to see.  Probably read it to ’em, too.  Here is a letter from a few years back.

April 11

Mom & Dad: The weather mavens are calling for 80F this afternoon so we have gone directly from pre-spring to summer like temps.  Had the kitchen window open this morning so as to hear the birds, and it was very nice.  On the other side of the scale, opened up a melon only to find it almost entirely buggy and rotten, and without milk, it was sort of a sparse breakfast.  But there’s no end of food downstairs of fast food joints.

Within two weeks I’ll be up your way.  Really excited to blow out of town and hit the road.  It will be good to venture over to Des Moines to see friends and golfing buddies, who I have prepped in terms of low expectations for my game.  They’re not entirely buying it but they’ll see for themselves the sorry state of my game.  I’ll probably head out pretty early Thursday morning and return about meal time on Saturday.  Of course, it depends on when I play golf.

Rode with a Harley group last night to some flea-bitten cantina for dinner.  It just reemphasizes that I like to ride by myself instead of with some group.  I just don’t have much in common with those other riders.  Maybe it’s a sign that it’s time to get rid of the bike.  Just kidding.  But it was a nice evening for it.  In the mid 70s.

Reid is in the throes of looking for a job.  Not a lot of real hot prospects in Indianapolis, and I think what will happen is he’ll venture back to Des Moines where he has a lot more contacts.  The hiring scene has definitely slowed down, and that doesn’t bode very well for college graduates.  Reid needs to be more proactive and targeted in what he wants to do.  He may venture on to the graduate school scene, but I really don’t know what schools he’s already applied to, if any.  He’s a good kid if someone would just give him the chance.

Ellen seems to be keeping her head up.  She’s frustrated with her current job, not the job so much, but not having many prospects for teaching.  She gets paid pretty well, probably more than a fledgling teacher would make, but she’ll get there soon enough.  If she and Tim tie the knot, knock on wood, that would solidify her situation somewhat because Tim would do okay in the job market.  Not sure where he wants to land.  He’s got another year of grad school at Minnesota.

Mike H____ and Mort M________ are due to arrive a week from today.  We’ll play golf and eat, then play a little more golf then eat some more.  We won’t be a wild and crazy bunch, that’s for sure.  Not certain what film Mike is working on right now, but he’s got some time on his hands.  That’s why he’s headed down here.  It will be good to have them in Charlotte for a couple of days.  Well, that’s enough for today, but I’ll call you guys soon enough.  Hope you’re feeling better mom.  The cause of your pain in the neck is sitting right next to you, most probably.