Not All Who Wander Are Lost

In Memorium

We're literally on our way out the door for a two-day on Long Island, where, in keeping with Jewish practice, eleven months after her burial, my grandmother Martha's gravestone unveiling takes place on Sunday afternoon, thus marking the official end of the mourning period for her passage. Tomorrow will be only my second visit to a gravesite for more than picnic and grave-rubbings; the first was Darcie's maternal grandmother's funeral, several years ago in a small ceremony outside Montreal.

It's different, somehow, when it's someone I knew all my life.

I missed the funeral last year -- missed it very much, in fact -- because Willow's birth was literally moments away, but in my stead I sent along the following Eulogy, which my brother graciously agreed to share with those loved ones assembled.

When I was very, very young, about 3 and a half, Grandma Fanny – my last living great grandmother -- passed away. Some of you here today knew her. I don’t remember her at all.

But I know about her. I know what her recipes tasted like through my mother’s cooking. I know her face from the photos that my mother and her parents collected and hung in the houses of my childhood. And I know her through her grandchildren and her children, who loved her, and who tell me about her so that I may love her in and through them.

I have always been interested in the cultures, families, and history which formed me. When, in March of my senior year in high school, I came to Florida to stay with Martha and Jerry, I was nominally there for vacation. But really, I was trying to find myself though our shared histories. I was a mess – a typically adolescent life-shattering mess – and I wanted to know more about Mom, and her mom, and this family, in the hopes of understanding myself better.

Boy did Grandma come through. From this haphazard but comprehensive archivist, I got a tour of photo albums and sketched a family tree, now mostly committed to memory. And stories – oh, so many stories. I listened for hours, asking questions, watching her hands move in the same way that mom’s hands move when she talks. I came home with a Brooklyn accent, I listened and learned so much that week.

In the years since, every time I saw Grandma, she gave me more pictures or mementoes. The first time Darcie and I came down to stay together, she sent me home with a whole album of pictures – of her childhood, of mine, of my mothers’. More recently, when we came down to Florida the last time to help them move up north, I had to talk her out of giving me too much of her mementoes and family artifacts just to make packing easier.

I owe Grandma so much. I owe her thanks for accepting Darcie readily when first introduced – “such a beautiful girl,” she called her – and never asking if she were Jewish. I owe her for bringing humor into my life inadvertently, whenever she came into my own house, went right to the fridge, and started offering me my own food. I owe her for helping to teach me the joys of family, and the joys of knowing everything one can about everything there is to know. She was a generous, vibrant, tough old lady who lived life on her own terms, opinionated and strong, a fighter, a model for much of who I ultimately chose to embrace and become as an adult. And I know this is true for many of us here today.

Now families grow and move on; that’s just life. As most of you know, our first child is due July 15th. We don’t know if it is a boy or a girl, but her middle name will be Myla; his middle name will be Miles. It is an honor to be able to name this child after Martha in this way.

I very much wanted Grandma to meet this child. I wanted her to tell me what a beautiful boy or girl. I wanted my child to know the generous and tireless woman I knew. I wanted him or her to find themselves one day presented with far too much food and urged to eat.

I have been blessed by this family in so many ways. Knowing all of one’s grandparents isn’t something that everyone can claim. My wife, for example, has already lost three of her own grandparents. But I know them all through her. As Darcie reminds me in my grief, Martha will always be with us, and my child will know her as I knew my great grandmothers and Darcie’s parent’s parents: through photographs and recipes; through anecdotes; through my own behavioral quirks, through the occasional oy or other Yiddish-ism. Martha will live through all of us, and live to be a vibrant character in my child’s history and identity. And as I have loved Fanny through – and in – my own parents and grandparents, so with all of your help will my child love Martha. It’s the least I can do for this tough old lady, in thanks for the most she could do – and did do, and, through all of you, will continue to do – for me and the rest of her family. Thanks, Grandma.

The unveiling may mark the end of mourning in a spiritual sense, but there is no law to govern the love I have for my Grandma, and the ache I feel when I realize she is no longer with us. I miss Martha every day, and am proud to share in her legacy. If you would, please think of me Sunday as I say goodbye one final time, be-suited in the hot sun. And if a glass is handy, raise it to fine old gal.

Irony Alert

Maternity retailer fires district manager for pregnancy after firing district mananger's boss for refusing to fire underling. Chain defends itself by claiming to be "uniquely sensitive to the needs of expectant mothers;" resultant lawsuit suggests unique sensitivity includes giving pregnant employees "look of horror" when encountering them in the workplace.

Link goes to short-version CNN article; original was in yesterday's Boston Globe.

File Under Memes

Friday Five. Now with italics!

1. How are you planning to spend the summer?

Lets see...two weeks moving, finally, into a school apartment out of the dorm after five years...a week volunteering at Facon Ridge Folk Festival (Darcie does sign painting; I do performer check-in)...a couple more festivals in there; see sidebar to the right for more coming attractions...leading a ten-day workshop in Teaching with Technology in Dhaka, Bangladesh in the first weeks of August, and then a week-long Alaskan cruise with my side of the family in that last week before school starts up again and it's goodbye, summer!

Also plenty of evenings at the local drive-in. And much time in green green grass with wife and baby.

2. What was your first summer job?

I worked at a Steve's ice cream in Newton, Mass until I got fired for opening all the soda twelve-packs in the walk-in looking for free CDs. It wouldn't have been so bad, except the boss/owner tried to move 'em and soda went everywhere.

That same summer I also drove a flower delivery van a couple hours a day, but the vases kept tipping over.

3. If you could go anywhere this summer, where would you go?

Antarctica. Damn, it's hot.

Seriously, I'd probably go to more folk festivals.

4. What was your worst vacation ever?

True wanderers and adventurers don't have worst vacations -- I've found that those without expectation are never truly disappointed, or unhappy for long. Even those trips with my parents when I was a sulky teenager with naught but younger siblings to hang with -- Mexico one year, Israel and Egypt the next -- had their charm; it's just that I really only appreciated that charm when I was alone, and solo time is scarce when families travel.

5. What was your best vacation ever?

Darcie and I went to Holland a couple of years before we had Willow -- castles, museums, the whole deal. Stayed the second week in this darling bed and breakfast in the Jordaan; wrote my entire master's thesis over espresso while Darcie slept each night. I'd go back in a heartbeat.

Hot Hot Hot

Woke far too early in a pop-up camper with the heat bearing down upon it; Willow and Darcie and Grandma Patty were on their way to Walmart, but I wasn't coherent enough to go anywhere yet. Breakfast with an equally tired Virginia instead.

I was going to work on some backlogged quick-edit video projects left over from the schoolyear but the shingles doesn't like the heat -- my shoulder's got a nasty stiff twinge; hives seem imminent. I'm rereading Susan Cooper's Over Sea, Under Stone, an old childhood favorite which Darcie left by the bedside, and trying to keep my mind off my body, but nowhere is comfy, really. The house isn't much cooler than the shade.

The three generations just returned with an inflatable baby pool and other sundries to report that it's 98 downtown and 87 in the shade here. Maybe we'll go up to South Pond again; the baby had a blast yesterday until her unsuccessful attempt to breathe with her mouth underwater. C'mon, rain!

Too Hot, Baby

98 degrees

Over ninety today. Sticky. The house is airless like a desert cave, but no cooler than the sun. The baby and I have matching heat rashes -- hers on her chest (chicken pox?) and mine on the tops of my feet where the leather straps of my sandals rub against my hairy blond hobbit-like tufts. I've sweated through two t-shirts in the two hours since I arose.

We've had enough. I woke to find the camper already half-collapsed; now that the camper's packed and hitched to the Camry, we're off to live in Darcie's parent's side yard for a few days until the rain comes. It's supposed to be three degrees cooler in Brattleboro, and South Pond, even farther up the mountain, is sure to be cooler still: Darcie's family has a community membership, and there's always room on the Ames Hill community beach.

Can you believe next week we're moving to an attic apartment? If we need something to do over the next day or so -- and we surely will, as living with a Saint Bernard isn't easy for me, and I like my space -- you'll find us air conditioner shopping in a happily cooled superstore. We can't really afford it, but such comfort is priceless when you live in the attic. We've been told it gets in the hundreds up there for most of July and August, so the race is on to cool the place before we move in.

Don't know when I'll be back, but blogging is theoretically possible from there, so you never know. In the meanwhile, stay cool, folks.

Meme And Meme Again

Had a ball last time I memeblogged from What's On...Right Now?; as I just finished cleaning up kitchen and bathroom a bit before the heat got to me, this week's question seemed as good as any:

What's On your bathroom/sink countertop Right Now?

Wait, let me check.

Okay, from left (bathtub's edge) to right (toiletside):

Squat wicker basket full of lotions of various types (skin, suntan, massage, anti-itch); also contains several broken hair ties, two plastic boxes floss, an extra bottle of Clairol Herbal Essences conditioner, and one small purple rubber massage ball for use in the bath.

Arm and Hammer Extra-strength Toothpaste tube, almost empty. Cap missing.

small blue plastic hospital bowl, usually left under dripping bath faucet as watering dish for dog.

Three toothbrushes in green plastic cup.

Sink.

Little dutch boy ceramic soap set. Mystery liquid (soap?) in liquid soap dispenser. Burt's Bees baby shampoo bar and broken hair tie in flat soap dish.

Store brand rubbing alcohol.

Mouthwash.

Hardwood hairbrush (needs cleaning).

Burt's Bees Bay Rum aftershave.

Economy size aerosol Right Guard (cap missing due to tendency for baby to use it as a bath boat).

Games magazine, most puzzles half-completed. Pen.

Half-roll institutional-grade toilet paper (for emergencies).

Naked Time!

My daughter Willow, at almost one year old, has learned to take her clothes off. One minute she was in her playpen wearing overalls and a diaper; the next she was jumping up and down completely nude, laughing hysterically.

I'm so proud.

Of Mud and Muggles: A Three Day Recap

It's been a weird few days, with events too entangled to blog cleanly about, but I didn't want to leave everyone hanging. Here's the rundown; feel free to skim.

Picked up Virginia at Mocha Joe's on Saturday night; her red Saab seriously dead, she's been expecting a new one from the Saab guy in Brattleboro any day now for a week or three. She was closing solo; I wiped tables and swept floors while she cashed out and shut down behind the counter. Home after midnight; up late listening to the rain on the roof and watching Al TV on VH1 until 2:00.

Two hours sleep and up at the crack of dawn for the long Sunday morning drive to Croton-on-Hudson, NY. Successful in our coffee and McMuffin quest only after the third off-exit try for a pitstop; turns out most McDonalds don't open until 6:30. More rain. Despite mapquest directions and an atlas page highlighted (hi-lit?) the night before, managed to get sidetracked, a bit too close to Ossining on some pretty narrow residential Routes, in the last few miles, but righted ourselves quickly.

Past train station and down a mile-long entry road into Croton State Park, where the girls at the entrance said "the park doesn't open until ten; you can't come in." We turned around, went back a mile for coffee, came right back in, parked surreptitiously along the vendor parking right by the vendor gate, and drank coffee while we watched people get turned away at the gate, turn around, and disappear. Half an hour later, first in line for tickets as the gates opened, we traded tickets for purple bracelets at the gate and walked right in.

The grounds were a wreck from a hard day of rain and foot traffic the day before. Ducks swam in marshes and shallow ponds that had once been stage access roads; everywhere volunteers with shovels spread rough mulch over the muddiest paths to no avail. Though most said that at least one main stage would likely be closed down and acts cancelled, put our pillows in white drawstring garbage bags out on in the still-otherwise-empty rain-drenched lawns anyway.

Crowds were low at the Clearwater festival this year as it rained on and off and on again. Oldtimey Reeltime Travelers and a reggae band at the Rainbow stage; funk/fusion banjo band Tony Trischka on the finally opened Hudson River Stage; The Mammals under the dance tent in drizzle; Dreadlock bluesman Alvin Youngblood Hart back at the Rainbow stage now complete with assholes with really tall chairs right in front of us; We're About Nine when Marshall Crenshaw didn't show; NRBQ a grand finale. Dancing in the mud, toes squirting ooze up as high as the knees. Pulled Pork and fresh fried chips and espresso; a tree of life pendant for Darcie; a pair of hippie dresses for the baby. We left, exhausted, before the festival prematurely ended at park police orders due to the total destruction of the grounds underfoot, beating the traffic, driving home in the kind of fog that only comes from a 48 hour day.

Drove Ginny home late Monday morning with Darcie and the baby; had eggs benedict and coffee at a decent diner in Brattleboro before spending a quiet afternoon close to home. When the heat began to turn unbearable by midafternoon we walked down to overgrown pond Shadow Lake here on campus, and Darcie in her new maroon suit dipped the baby in up to her chest until she turned just the tiniest bit blue. The dog chased invisible fish. I sat on a log by the short beach and watched other people's kids look for snappers.

Weekly community barbecue by the Cottage Row dorms, our first of the year. We thought it might be cancelled after a freak driving rain a half hour beforehand, but after a while folks showed up, five or six damilies with two or three kids each in tow, all with their own meat and potato salad to share. The grills ran out of propane so a few folks volunteered to take all the food away and cook it somewhere. Result: cold burgers but good company, if still a bit not-our-crowd.

Did I mention we're moving to a new apartment, out of dorm? 'Course not; we just called it. Darcie and I spent hours last night making the call, a long discussion, and it's not perfect -- eaves, attic, and two flights of stairs; no laundry or yard -- but it's out of dorm and Darcie and Willow need more space and less high school students next year, I think. More as this develops; we'll be moving for the next few weeks.

Today needs only a sentence: breakfast sandwiches with a nice random woman with twins sharing the couch and high chairs at Cafe Koko late this morning after a late start, and then sat and read Harry Potter all day today after finding on supermarket shelves, playing with the almost-walking baby in between chapters. Just finished an hour or so ago. No spoilers here; read it, and then we'll talk, okay?

Do Not Disturb Any Further

Am reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix which, after all the release night hooplah, was on sale in the supermarket.

More later. It is very engrossing.

Monday Mosh

After a week off -- who knew it was Monday? -- the Monday Mosh meme is back with a vengance!

What song did you mosh to?
Eddie From Ohio's Eddie's Concubine, with the headphones on so as not to wake the baby. I know most people think a southern folk rock quartet a bit odd to mosh to, but this song felt just right -- it's got the perfect beat for thrashing around, it's over five minutes long, and after yesterday's rainyday trip to the Clearwater Folk Festival and Revival, I'm all excited to see EFO at Falcon Ridge next month.

What did you step on/bump into? (bonus points for breakage)
Stepped on my own feet a couple of times -- these new sandals are kinda heavy, and the shoe-crust left over from the muddy grounds at Croton State Park doesn't help their flexibility. Nothing broken, but dried Hudson River-side dirt all over the floor.

Why did you stop?
Moshing quietly is much more exhausting than moshing loudly. With the headphones on I couldn't be sure I was quiet enough, so today's mosh was, truly, only a token. Plus my legs hurt from so much dancing yesterday.

Post your own Monday Mosh in your blog with a link in the comments below, or just post 'em right in the comments instead like Shaw and David already did; the questions are easy and ever unchanging, but the premise remains: on Mondays, we all need a little dancin'.

(For those keeping track, I'll post a full review of Clearwater later today.)