Norma

I’d like to thank those of you who’ve expressed such kind thoughts on news of the passing of Mary’s mom.

This week’s news cycle is full of what to the world must seem like larger issues. Muhammad Ali passed and I view him as a great guy who will be sorely missed. Hillary Clinton has emerged as the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee, which presents a conundrum for many of us who don’t like to face voting for her (the lesser of two evils still being, you know, evil). An inconceivably light sentence for a despicable crime, college and high school graduations, changing weather, business news – all of these affect more than a few people.

But it is the few people whose concerns have occupied my thoughts this week. The six who have lost their mother, the few who have lost their sister, or their grandmother or mother-in-law.

I don’t have anything profound to say about Norma except that I liked her and she was a kind and caring friend to me. And goofy, in her own way.

Perhaps the most profound thing I can share about Norma with folks who never met her is that when she passed, all six of her adult children were in attendance. Because they couldn’t not be. Because she was and always had been Mom.

A body could do worse than to raise six kids who become the adults who made sure she was never alone these last months.

Goodonya, Queenie!

The blame game

                It’s easy to dislike and even ridicule the businessman-turned-politician whose name rhymes with dump (as in, take a…) and I admit I do dislike him.

                I dislike him for his ludicrous ‘birther’ campaign, for his baseless claims to superiority in all endeavors, for ridiculing a reporter for his disabilities, for his attitudes toward women, for “…my African-American…,” for cheer-leading the thugs who attend his rallies, then cringing behind his security folks when someone tries to return the favor.  His abject failure to present a single fully formed and intelligently expressed idea for making ‘America great again’ is laughable. His ‘…bleeding from…” comment displays not only his hatred of women but his incredibly bad taste.

                This guy’s ascendant candidacy is making us a laughing stock the world over. Serious people of good will can only view it as a failure of this country to make good on the promise of representative democracy.

                He represents everything I dislike about big-money politics. And he exposes the atrocious state of political reporting these days as reporters and pundits who prefer sensationalism over sober reflection and blather over insightful commentary grant him the most extensive free coverage since Neil Armstrong stepped onto the lunar surface.

                He is a buffoon, a bully and a bigot. But because he’s also a billionaire, he can buy a platform and as long as what he says is sufficiently outrageous, what passes for the press these days will continue to guarantee him as much publicity as he desires.  He has nothing real to say, which explains why so many of his pronouncements take place through a platform that limits comments to 140 characters.

                It’s fair to say I am not a big fan of this overblown nincompoop.

                It is also fair to say I don’t blame him for his fame or even for his standing in the primaries.

                I don’t blame him for the same reason I don’t blame a neighbor’s dog for crapping on my lawn. Crapping is a central skill for dogs and understanding appropriate social context or cultural rules of civility is not.

                This guy does what he is inclined to do, based on an upbringing and business climate that has encouraged him to believe that his way is by definition the right way.

                I don’t blame him and if he’s elected to the highest office in the land, I still won’t blame him.

                Should that happen, I blame us. 

Things you learn during an overnight in the airport

Most people don’t know the questions to ask. I am totally alone in an upper floor passenger lounge with maybe 60 easy chairs, a table to work at and relative quiet. Most of the MANY people who missed their connection and have to wait until morning are downstairs with the thin and very used floor cushions the airport puts out for their use. (Update: Between 8:18pm and 5:31am, only four other people made use of this great space. Go figure.)

The TSA folks are really nice when they don’t have a mile-long line of stressed passengers in front of them. I’m just across from their office.

Speaking of TSA, when you go in their office to ask a question, don’t step into the part with all the radio gear – it makes them quite touchy.

All-nighters are for college-age humans, not old Fudds.

You can get a lot of writing done when you have nine hours to kill and a comfortable chair in a quiet area. Which is not to say good writing, but what the hell.

Those recorded messages about not letting strangers touch your baggage get more annoying the longer the night drags on.

You should not begin an airport overnight in a state of fatigue. You see, I am afraid of falling asleep – not because I might get robbed, although I might – but because I don’t want to wake up covered in drool surrounded by smirking strangers.

The night janitor in the ‘quiet’ section of this lounge is a really pleasant, hardworking guy. Jamaican, I’m guessing from the accent when he declines my offer to move out of his way.

There are 1,036 itty-bitty holes in each of the vent grills in the ceiling above me. Counted, did the math.

I am no more erudite in the MSP airport in the middle of the night than at any other time.  

My life

 I may be the most fortunate man I know.

I am married to a wonderful, strong woman who puts up with me. And we have two daughters who are quickly becoming two of my favorite adults in the world.

My job gets me through the day, rather than just getting through my work days. Sure, company politics and such can be a pain. But the work I do and the people with whom I do it are exactly what I would have chosen under the Veil of Ignorance, assuming I could have known from initial position how right this outcome would be for me.

I have some wonderful long-time friends – you know who you are and I so love you.

A young man has come into my life with whom I’ll be taking a road trip soon – one of my favorite activities with one of my favorite people.

I love that I can write and you can read it in near real time and I so appreciate the when/where in which my life is playing out.

I know it might seem like I’m building to some sort of twisted reveal but no. I’m just happy tonight and wanted to share it. 

Neutral corners

As I type this, Mary is in Chicago, taking a break from hospice-nursing her mom to spend a couple days being a Mom herself. Specifically, she is helping Daughter Two and The Boy choose an apartment suitable for (ahem…) cohabitation.

Since I am not part of the process except, of course for reminding them that if they expect me to visit, a manse on the 40^th floor is out, I find myself thinking a lot about texts I won’t send. Such as: Where are you now – What have you seen – Are they agreeing… Texts I will not send because I’m not a dummy and a flurry of text-based interruptions would not please the woman with whom I have to, you know, live.

So the scripts run unheard in my brain. And now, on this page.

If I was to give sage apartment-choosing advice, I keep coming back to one admonition – the importance of neutral corners.

When people ask how Mary and I have stayed lovingly together these thirty years, I have to say it’s not about agreeing or never getting angry. It’s more about how you handle things when you tick each other off.

I wish I could tell you we have developed a rubric for working through our disconnects with logic and love but for most such incidents, that would be a lie. Truth is, it has usually been about allowing each other time to simmer in peace.

And that means neutral corners.

You each need a place to go and fume without being tempted to fire off just one more perfect argument. We’ve found that just one more perfect argument is frequently what will convert a relatively mild issue to ground combat. So, when we reach that point we (sometimes - I have to admit we’re not perfect in our combat avoidance scheme) go to neutral corners and eventually, usually, one of us finds it in our heart to apologize or in our mind to reframe the question at hand or in the best circumstance, both.

That’s it, the whole nugget for today.

Neutral corners.

They don’t have to be far apart or commodious or even sealable, as with a door. All they have to be is recognized and inviolable. (Yes, yes, it helps if you can’t hear each other breathing.)

If your new apartment allows for neutral corners, and you start off with love and respect, you’re well on your way to thirty years.  Trust me on this.

(Damn, I’m brilliant!)

Norma in passing

As I type this, my mother-in-law, Mary’s mother lays dying. Mary is with her at her home in Florida, as is another of her daughters and a granddaughter and son-in-law. The family is well represented, as it has been these months as Norma’s children and their children visited, paid respects, conveyed their love and helped her through a process we all know but none of us really understands.

It is revealing of Norma as mother that each and all of her offspring has made a point of being part of her process of farewell.

There are tears, of course. Always, there are tears but there is also satisfaction in knowing that what could be done to help her has been done and by people who love her.

She's been mother to my wife, grandmother to my daughters and my friend, now of 30 years. And while we will be diminished by her passing, each and all of us were enriched by the time we had with her.

We all knew this day would come and that made it easier during the long denouement of her life. But today, it doesn’t help so much to say that she had a good run or that she knew she was loved, although those are both true enough.

Today is difficult because although we all knew this day would come, now the day has come. 

On her own terms

Sometimes the best thing that can happen to you as a parent does not involve having your kid graduate or learn to drive a car or win a contest or pass a test.

Sometimes it’s not about anything you have helped her do, or taught her or provided for her.

Sometimes it’s not about telling her what she should do, advice being a poor substitute for learning through experience.

Sometimes there is nothing for you to do but wait and watch, which is of course the hardest thing of all. So hard not to lend a hand or a word. Soul wrenching not to help.

Sometimes the kid really does surpass the parent who at her age would never have stood up and said enough of this.

Sometimes you just have to trust. And when it turns out the trust was well placed, now that is a moment!

She stood up for herself, drew a line she would not allow to be crossed. Because beyond the line was the land of herself and it turns out she loves herself enough to protect her borders.

She makes me so proud. This one was not interested in being what she needed even as he insisted she fulfill his needs, so this one had to go away. There will be others, but only on her terms.

She will shape a life that works for her, which is of course the only way it can ever work for a future them.

She gets it and she is courageous.

Sometimes the best thing a parent can do is believe.

So proud. 

Planting trees

“Society grows when old men plant trees whose shade they know they will never sit in.”

I’m told this is an ancient Greek proverb. Couldn’t say definitively and it doesn’t matter where it came from. It’s my thought for the day.

This is one of those times when it would do a disservice to both the original quote and my readers if I was to try to improve on it.

Have a good night. 

You know what to do

Until recently, I didn’t think there was any possible combination of conditions or events that would make me vote for Hillary Clinton.

After all, she is a totally fake person who did a poor job as Sec State. She would lie when only the truth could save her. I really don’t like the idea of another Clinton on Pennsylvania Ave. I could go on but too many of you seem to actually like her and I don’t want to lose friends.

Let’s just say that based on long observation of H. Clinton I have concluded that she would be a disaster as president (although admittedly she could hardly be worse than some recent vintages – her own hubbie and George W come to mind). And I believed the worst thing that could happen this electoral cycle would be for her to prevail.

 I was wrong.

Turns out, there is something worse than a candidate who has no soul. It’s a candidate who is the embodiment of evil. And now, the Republican Party is about to put one on the ballot.

Friends, please vote. Please encourage others who are not misogynistic, racist, narcissistic dumbasses to vote, as well.

We can survive Hillary. I’m not sure the same would hold true for the other choice. 

The ugly wife

(Note to reader: Don’t know why I didn’t post this one at the time – last summer – but here it is now.)

So, I’m sitting in the waiting room of a Ford dealership in Schiller Park Illinois at about 7:15 this morning, waiting to find out if I need to spend a few grand on my transmission before I can start the 2300 mile drive home. Now, you might think my mood was kinda low, given the circumstances. And you would be right, except for a news item that changed my day.

There were four of us within earshot when a story came on about some guy who is suing his wife for divorce on the basis of fraud. It seems that the morning after the wedding night was the first time this schlub had seen his beloved without her makeup and he was displeased at the revelation.

Hmmm, I say.

But my waiting room posse said more than hmmm. In fact, the other man and woman waiting for their bad car news and the cashier behind the counter all broke into riotous laughter. After a beat, so did I.

Sometimes, other people’s problems sort of make your own recede into insignificance. And that poor woman’s problems makes my broken car seem less important than a hangnail.

The real question here is not how this idiot managed to get to the marriage bed before he decided he didn’t like his wife’s looks. The real question is how she got to the marriage bed without noticing what a slug she was marrying.

Anyway, not that I am one to revel in the problems of others but I do have to admit this was the most jovial waiting room experience I can recall.

More great quotes

“The smile that followed made the sun look like a fool.” Toni Morrison, Paradise.

As you might deduce from the title above, I had intended this to be a discussion of some of my favorite quotes. But I didn’t get past this one by Morrison. I am staggered by her ability to capture a thought so perfectly in so few words. So I’ll stop here.

“The smile that followed made the sun look like a fool. “

Wow.

Two women

              There are many people I’ve come to respect over the course of my life. For diverse reasons I find them exemplars of some aspect of what I suppose I’ve come to consider ‘right living.’ Marilyn and Barry for how they came through Christopher’s death and in spite of their loss found a way to make life good for their other children. Anne for redefining herself on her own terms.

              Joe is facing terminal illness with grace and humor, while Elaine remains the perfect partner for a man who will be gone too soon but for the moment is very much still here.

              Mary for too many reasons to list here, and many of them too private. Rachel for finding friends by being a friend.

              Sherree for persevering, all the while providing foundation for Naomi and always a kind (or frequently, goofy) word for someone who needed it.

              All of these and more have contributed to my life in ways that I could not have predicted, didn’t ask for, but without which I question whether I could have become myself.

              I’m thinking of two such people tonight, each a friend in her own way and each a special contributor to my life. What they have in common is that each of them set out to find her dream, to fashion a life around a central theme that was uniquely her own.

              Sindy was always going to be an actor and sure enough, she is and always has been. Her life in theatre has followed the ragged course that life defines for you even as she kept her nose ever pointed in the direction of her dream. There were sidesteps and roadblocks and other passions but never did she give up on her need to be herself, a self that needed to be played out - at least in part - on the boards. She is well along in her journey now and recently has returned to the core, acting with friends old and new and expressing herself through her chosen medium.

              Angela also dreamed of the life dramatic and charted a course no less serpentine than Sindy’s. There have been successes and setbacks and just now she finds herself at a crossroads, faced with the choice of taking one path or the other, or perhaps blazing a new one of her own. I take great pride in her achievements but even more, my chest swells at her striving. She shares with Sindy the single-minded passion for her art that ensures, even if it’s not always her job, it will always be somehow entwined in her life’s work.

              Sindy’s life didn’t follow a straight line. News flash – neither has mine. Or Mary’s or Sherree’s or those of the many people I respect and care for.

              And so far, neither has Angela’s. And that’s okay. Because she has never given up or given in and I’ve no doubt she will get there, wherever ‘there’ is.

              Lives aren’t supposed to follow straight lines. The only true requirement is that they must be lived. I respect these two women for living their lives. Their lives, shaped by circumstance and events, knocked occasionally off course by the actions or inactions of others. But in the end, their lives.
              We could all stand to live more for ourselves.

A cemetery

On a low hill above Tea Creek outside Milroy, PA is a cemetery. The oldest section is closest to the road, which accounts for my noticing it.

I must have driven past hundreds of cemeteries over the years but this one caught me, made me find a wide place to turn about and come back. I parked at the end of the farm drive next to the cemetery, waving to the Mennonite woman who paused briefly in her chores to glance at me quizzically.

The rows of headstones were lined up perfectly like folding chairs at the school play. Perhaps it was this detail that I found most compelling. Or perhaps it was the age of the headstones, some with the carvings no longer much resembling letters and words but still clearly inscriptions.

This is a respected place, a place cherished by someone who has kept the grass nicely trimmed around each stone and the stones themselves all upright and aligned. In perfect rows all facing down slope toward the living people below. The dead are perfectly positioned to watch the processions of the living on the road below, going about their lives.

The first real play in which I ever appeared was my eighth grade production of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. I was to have played the part of George except I was too tall for Nancy who was playing Emily, at least according to Nancy’s mom who was a big wheel in the parish and made a federal case of the height difference to Sister Verona… (intake of breath) but, let’s not go there (sniff!).

Since I first read that script, I’ve been affected – one might say, haunted – by the cemetery scene. The idea of the dead sitting in their chairs watching and commenting on the world of the living, the people who don’t really understand. The ones who can’t really understand life so long as they remain caught up in it.

Today, just outside Milroy, PA I finally saw that scene as Wilder must have seen it. It was magical.

I’ll sleep well tonight

You get a good rest, too.

A list for Chicago

              An “Architectural Tour” of the Chicago aboard an excursion boat on the Chicago River with Daughter Two yielded the following list of observations:

I so love spending time with my daughters.

There are lots of tall buildings in Chicago

To the top of none of which I shall ever venture.

Irish skin burns easily.

I am so glad I brought my hiking boots, in which I need to spend a lot more time, you know, actually hiking, if my now complaining muscles are any indication.

Many cool bookstores are to be found here, but none to compare with the Portland Powell’s (Sorry, Chicago…).

I could never live here but it sure is a cool place to mosey around.

Daughter Two is as big a sucker for dogs as is One (witness one Cleo).

A father and daughter should never get so wrapped in their conversation that they totally ignore the GPA lady until they realize they’ve been driving for an hour in the wrong direction.

Whys and wherefores

I’m sitting here on an overcast morning wondering at how I came to be here. Certainly, my view could have been quite different.

Instead of gazing out on a lawn needing its second mowing of the season (already?) and a glorious profusion of cherry blossoms and the decrepit shed we’ll finally tear down this summer, I could have been looking at... what?

This window could have been the more elegantly framed fenestre of a wood paneled study instead of the vinyl-coated factory framed double-pane on the outside wall of bedroom-cum-office. Or it could have been the high and narrow clerestory designed to permit entrance of light but only a slight view of the sky from my prison cell.

Could have been.

And of course, between those two extremes reside an infinite array of could-have-beens, not all glorious but neither all desperate.

There were those in my early years who thought me destined for the university and the life of the academic, and those today who wonder where I went off course. I’ve no good answer except, here I be.

At one time I saw my future as an author and now find myself instead (and joyously) a writer. ‘Author’ was never important enough to shoulder aside the writer in me.

I didn’t always see myself as a father and certainly not as a Dad, so how did I come to deserve those appellations, to the extent that I can be truthfully considered deserving of the honor?

I suppose I could have been a politician but even if elected to some middling office I would have been a poor one. Besides, earning the support of voters turns out not to be such a noble feat, judging by current events. I’ve earned the trust of the two dogs that sleep at my feet as I work and therein resides my pride.

Through accident of genetics I was born with a mind that could have learned many different things. And to a family that put those things within reach.

Could have beens.

I chose this life, I suppose, although I can’t recall the juncture at which the path leading to this desk before this window became settled.

I’ve friends, not so many but each one good and true, the family that I would have hoped for under Rawls’ veil of ignorance, and abilities and interests that fill my days with satisfaction.

You won’t find me complaining.

Even so, looking out this window as the breeze freshens and the cherry petals begin to fall, I can’t help wondering what might have been.

A non-poet's thoughts on poetry

There is poetry to be found
In the unexpected view
Of the mountain over still water.
In unrestrained
Laughter at a shared delight
Poetry may be found.

 Do not seek poetry

From this mind and hand –
I am no poet.
I take no interest
In meter or rhyme;
Of Angelou’s talent and craft
I am bereft.

 But not deprived,

For I easily find poetry
In the lives of friends,
In the triumphs of daughters
And in forgiveness for my faults.

I need not struggle to make poetry;

It is here to be found.
I’ve only to notice
And be thankful.

 

(It's Sindy's fault I did this one.)

Thanks

I love you for reading this. I really do.

Not for the thrill it gives me to watch the hit counter and know that people chose to drop by, although I guess honesty demands that I admit that’s part of it.

I love you for the choice. At this moment you could be running out to the store or reading about the latest political eruption or any of the other things with which we occupy our minds when we are neither working nor doing our laundry.

You chose to be here for this brief moment of time. And if you’ve been here before, as have most of you, it is clear by now that you’ll find nothing earth shattering in this lonely column. It’s just life. My life and my observations on the lives of others.

I like to think I provide you something in return for trusting me with a bit of the two commodities you can never replace – your time and attention. I hope I do because I feel a responsibility in that regard.

I love people who choose thoughtful conversation over diatribes, although I must admit the frequency with which I’m tempted to rant about the issue of the day (and sometimes do).

I read similar (frequently better) pages like this written by others whose thoughts I find interesting or soothing or inspiring. Some of you, some others.

I hope there never comes a time when we don’t make time for simple sharing of thoughts. Truly, I love that you feel the same.

Dog comparison

	Great Dane	Chihuahua
Name	Odin	Cleo
Weight	110 lbs	9 lbs (being generous here)
Means of engagement	Presses face into crotch	Inserts body into armpit
Vocalization	Loud, deep bark	Sneezy little chuffs
Territoriality	His bed. Also, Zoey’s bed	Angela’s bed
Elapsed time to turn human into quivering mass of love	One minute, thirteen seconds	Yeah, that’s about right
Human love with	Rachel	Angela
Chews	House, barbecue cover, toys, etc.	Food. Can’t be bothered with non-food items.
Courage	Afraid of cats	Afraid of nothing
Favorite pastime	Sleeping	Sleeping
Favorite comment	D’oh!	Wazzat?
Tenure in family	Nine years, ten months	Two days, four hours
Legacy	So many good memories	So many good times ahead

Observation will continue.

Cleo

The newest member of Clan McDermott is a Chihuahua. Yes, yes, one of those little constantly underfoot rat-like dogs. Well, maybe not so much a dog as a mutation of the canine strain in the direction of smallness.

I’ve always been more a fan of larger dogs. Sam was a Rottweiler / Blue Tick Hound. Odin was a Great Dane / Black Lab. I like my furry buddies to weigh in the three digit zone.

So, there we were at the animal shelter, Daughter One and I perusing the current offerings of the four-legged variety. Hugo was a cool Pug mix but Mary would never go for such a heavy shedder so no Hugo. Remington was a cool old guy but we were looking for a companion who would be a closer match to Zoey the Small and Annoying and Remington was decidedly large.

A young couple swooped in and snatched up the cute little black and white little girl before we could make our pitch.

Then about halfway down the left line of cages One came across this little shivering, ears-forward, tail wagging fist-sized girl who couldn’t get enough of One’s fingers to lick. Swear to Gawd, it was first sight love for da bote a dem.

She’s a sweet little thing and anxious for affection of any kind. And she’s house-broken. She’ll fit in just fine. And Zoey will be a great big sis to her.

So, welcome to the family, Cleo.

Point of view

I was riding across the lake the other day and both Mt. Baker to my north and Rainier to my south were out in all their glory. It was a magnificent sight. (Okay, sights, since I had to turn my head to see each in turn.)

I got to thinking about the potential for an eruption. Based on sedimentary evidence of previous pyroclastic flows, either mountain could spawn a doozy. I give way occasionally to a low grade nervousness about it, the way you occasionally worry about a lightning strike. Not likely, but still…

And then, in the way one’s mind wanders when riding the bus with a finished book and stunning mountains within view, I got to thinking about the frequency of eruptions. I found myself wondering what a film of our volcanoes would look like from a more geologic point of view.

I decided that western Washington, viewed from high above and speeded up a gadzillion times, might most resemble a coffee percolator. Or perhaps thick soup just coming to a simmer.

It was a cool thought.

And then I noticed the teenager across from me and thought of geologic acne and the whole thing was ruined in a single pop.

Not every bus ride flight of fancy makes it to cruising altitude.