The day had finally arrived. My son was leaving for college. And, unlike when I went to college on the opposite coast – his parents were coming along with him for “move-in day.” It would be a first for all three of us.
Packing was no small feat. I was determined to let him do it himself, just as I had done. Back in the 80’s when I was a kid, I had to rely on myself ... and my very prepared and understanding Eagle Scout boyfriend with his mom’s old Datsun wagon and good ol’ UPS on Western Avenue to ship my stuff across the country.
My son would have two personal couriers with him. I figured the least he could do was pack everything himself.
My husband, of course, as prone to fantasy as he is about his sports teams, is more realistic than me when it comes to real life. Plus, he used to be a teenaged boy. So he casually (at first) asked to see Miles’s luggage. Then, I heard him gently suggesting things to our son. Ultimately, he just decided it was necessary to jump in and re-pack everything, going through my son’s room with him and asking do-you-need-this-how-about-that and eventually emerging with the necessities of life for a college freshman. Of course, the first thing to figure out was how to pack the Klipsch with the subwoofer. Of course. And how to pack his posters so they wouldn’t get munched.
Things he didn’t need or want, which I would have considered basic necessities:
mirror
hairbrush
Apparently, my son doesn’t need such frivolous things. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I stayed up most of the night, doing more laundry, just in case. This would be the last time I would be doing his laundry for a few months, so I didn’t mind. Plus, I probably wouldn’t have slept very well, anyway. While I waited for the washing machine and dryer to do the actual washing and drying, I searched the internet for a picture of Pikachu and Ash, Pokemon Getto Daze playing over and over in my head.
Miles said his good-byes to his sister and the dog, and then we made our way to San Francisco International Airport early the next morning and got checked in. I fell asleep as soon as I found my seat on the plane, and, as if in a time machine, we seemed to instantaneously land in Philadelphia. The rest of the day was a blur of luggage, rental car, Siri’s voice telling me where to go, and driving to the hotel, from the hotel, to Bed Bath & Beyond, to Target, to Chik-Fil-A, and back to the hotel again. Anything that he hadn’t packed that he thought he needed, we bought. This included a laundry bag, laundry detergent, shampoo, body wash (so he wouldn’t have to deal with carrying around a bar of soap), a pillow, towels, a trash can, ibuprofen and scissors.
Still no mirror or hairbrush.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
furusato
This past year has been one of reflection. Time passes, as do friends and loved ones. Change is inevitable. My children have outgrown me, literally, standing taller than me now. Evidence in the face of my denial.
In spite of change -- or maybe because of it -- there is a place in my heart that I retain and nurture for my furusato: Gardena, in the South Bay area of L.A. Even though I have not lived there for more than a summer since I left high school, I still refer to it as “home.”
As I lunge headfirst into this new year and one of my milestone birthdays, I’ll say a toast to all of you who’ve made my life what it is today -- Gardena homies and non-homies, alike. With appreciation and gratitude to you all, but especially to my better-half, who orchestrated my early surprise birthday celebration -- here’s to many more memories, and more milestones to come.
And ... happy birthday to all of my classmates who are hitting that milestone this year, too!
In spite of change -- or maybe because of it -- there is a place in my heart that I retain and nurture for my furusato: Gardena, in the South Bay area of L.A. Even though I have not lived there for more than a summer since I left high school, I still refer to it as “home.”
furusato
The place where I felt completely normal and average
not a model of anything, and certainly not a minority
Where I walked to school with a couple friends
across the railroad tracks on Normandie
hoping there wouldn’t be a train
when we were only six years old
Where I learned to play basketball in my backyard
and played tennis and rollerskated
on the smooth concrete of South Park
back in the day when the courts were new
and we all wore Dittos and rainbow pocket jeans
Where our club basketball team roster read
Ageno
Endo
Jung
Mochizuki
Monuki
Oyama
Sialana
Shiota
Tabata
Watanabe
and it was unusual because there were two names that were not Japanese
Where bento was something you took to school
not something you ordered at a restaurant
and nobody crinkled their nose and said "What's that?"
when you pulled out a rice ball for lunch
Where we knew what sushi was before it became trendy
Ordered from Sakae Sushi by the box
always wrapped in white paper and tied with a red string
Happy to play Uncle Min jan-ken-po (not ro sham bo)
for that last piece of ebi
I liked the saba better, but liked seeing Uncle smile
as we faced off
and I somehow won again
Where I can still speak Japanese today
in one of the handful of Japanese grocery stores
and people are confused by my looks --
What self-respecting Japanese woman lets her hair go grey?
and what’s up with all the age spots
(surely she knows there is no such thing as a “shimi-bijin”)?
Where my mom still has her yarn shop
a few doors down from the manju place
and you can still go to the Buddhist Church carnival to get
buttered corn on the cob
Okinawa dango
udon
teriyaki
and
of course
tamales
Where I was lucky enough to gather with friends and family
to celebrate the new year and years past
Sharing a moment with some who have changed my diapers
and others who I’ve “only” known since kindergarten or junior high
All of whom shared a time in their lives
when they called this place “home,” too
Time and distance have separated us
but we still share this space
that has shaped us in some way
Our furusato
As I lunge headfirst into this new year and one of my milestone birthdays, I’ll say a toast to all of you who’ve made my life what it is today -- Gardena homies and non-homies, alike. With appreciation and gratitude to you all, but especially to my better-half, who orchestrated my early surprise birthday celebration -- here’s to many more memories, and more milestones to come.
And ... happy birthday to all of my classmates who are hitting that milestone this year, too!
Sunday, October 20, 2013
checkpoint
The alarm on my phone is set to sound like church bells, although they are ringing rather early this Sunday morning. Bleary-eyed, I turn it off, not worried about waking up my husband -- he should be up, anyway. I had offered to take Miles to the airport by myself, but he said he wanted to go, too.
Our son has a 6:15 am flight out of SFO, direct to Philadelphia, for a college visit. It's only for a few days, but it feels like a trial run of the real thing, less than a year away. We decided to leave the house by 4:30 am. Which really means 4:45 am.
I am putting on my make-up when I hear my son chatting with my husband. Miles is up and ready to go! He had packed his bags the night before, printed out his boarding passes and forms required by the college, charged up his phone, and clearly knew better than to rely on me to wake him up. I got myself dressed and went down to get the sandwiches I had packed for him last night, added napkins and a bag of Popchips, and tried to impart some words of wisdom to him.
"So, when you're done eating the sandwiches or discarding what you decide not to eat -- you should at least keep the big outside Ziploc, because that will still be clean, and it's a good idea to have an extra Ziploc bag when you are traveling. They come in handy sometimes," I say, trying not to sound overly anal, and failing miserably.
"Okay," replies my son. No judgment or eye-rolling. Just the usual okay, thank goodness.
I find myself telling him random things like this with increasing frequency these days. It's as if I sense that my days with him are numbered, and I am realizing there is so much I am not sure he would think of on his own. My father was relentless in telling us the "right" way to do things, and, quite frankly, I still hear his voice today in my head, making me do things better. I fear I have failed my kids in this area, and I'm cramming it in now, in their teenage years. I doubt that they like it much, but they humor me by just saying "okay."
We drive across the Bay Bridge, lit up in its stark beauty against the black sky ... and then, it feels like only a minute before we are driving through the fogginess of South City. We have arrived at our destination: San Francisco Airport.
My husband tells me that he'll wait at the curb with the car -- no need to pay for parking when it will only be a few minutes to see our son off to the security checkpoint. I get out of the car to see Miles jokingly shaking hands with his father as they say their good-bye's, and am surprised when he turns to me, hand extended, saying "Bye, Mom ..."
"What? Oh! No, I'm walking in with you," I say as I give him a quick hug at the curb. "Where's your bag?"
"It's in the back. I'll get it," he zips over to get it and he follows me into the terminal. We stop in front of the monitors, looking up in unison. I see his flight information on the screen, but I don't say anything.
"US Airways. 6:15. On time. Gate 26," my son reads off the monitor. I'm glad I didn't say anything. My son is growing up. He's a seasoned traveler. He will be fine. I'm so relieved. I get ready to say my real good-bye to him.
"Okay -- have a good time," I say, as he hugs me and picks my feet off the floor in the process, "-- but not too much of a good time."
I chuckle, and he gives me the polite okay-that's-a-weird-mom-thing-to-say smile as he starts walking away from me ... and away from the entrance to the checkpoint.
"Wait! Miles! No -- you enter over there, under the sign that says: 'ENTER HERE' --"
"Oh, wait, what? Oh, okay ..."
And with that, my son walked off in the right direction, through the ID checkpoint.
He didn't look back once. I know, because I stood there, discreetly watching him, trying to stay out of his sight. I could have stood there and waved frantically, screaming, "MILES!!! MILES!!! DON'T FORGET TO CALL!!! MAKE SURE YOU REMEMBER TO EAT YOUR LUNCH! REMEMBER THE TIME DIFFERENCE! THEY ARE THREE HOURS AHEAD OF US! DO YOU HAVE YOUR TOOTHBRUSH? YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH, DIDN'T YOU? CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THERE!!! BYE!!!"
But, I didn't.
Instead, I watched in silence. Then, I noticed a few other adults standing randomly, facing towards the security checkpoint maze, much closer to the glass barrier that separates the travelers from those of us watching and waiting. I walk over to that area, not making eye contact with anybody, trying to keep my sight-line on my son.
"Excuse me, ma'am." I look down towards the voice of a man bending over near my foot. Apparently, I'm standing too close to a storefront gate that needs to open, so I apologize and move a few steps over. I look up. Where's Miles? Did he already get through security? Could he have gotten through so quickly?
I panic for a millisecond, then realize he is just blocked from my view by a post. I watch as he gets up to the pre-conveyor belt area, puts his bag on the table, grabs a bin, puts in his shoes, puts in his phone, takes off his sweatshirt, puts his backpack down, scoots his stuff over to make room for the person behind him, puts his sweatshirt into the bin, puts his bags on the conveyor belt, waits his turn, and steps into the screening machine. I see him put his hands up as the imaging device does its thing. It's getting harder to see him now, but I catch enough of him to see him grab something (his sweatshirt? yes, his sweatshirt), put on his sweatshirt and grab something else (his shoes?) and something else and something else and then move away from the conveyor belt.
He sits down and disappears from sight. I think about leaving, but wait a moment longer, and try to find him. Could that be him? No, not him. Is that him? It's hard to see with my old eyes, but I make out a young man wearing a hoodie. Is that him? That looks like his backpack. Ah, yes, and that's his bag.
That's him. My son. The young man.
I watch as he disappears down the concourse, not looking back.
Note: I didn't cry as I watched him go, but I can't say the same as I write this. They really do grow up so fast.
Our son has a 6:15 am flight out of SFO, direct to Philadelphia, for a college visit. It's only for a few days, but it feels like a trial run of the real thing, less than a year away. We decided to leave the house by 4:30 am. Which really means 4:45 am.
I am putting on my make-up when I hear my son chatting with my husband. Miles is up and ready to go! He had packed his bags the night before, printed out his boarding passes and forms required by the college, charged up his phone, and clearly knew better than to rely on me to wake him up. I got myself dressed and went down to get the sandwiches I had packed for him last night, added napkins and a bag of Popchips, and tried to impart some words of wisdom to him.
"So, when you're done eating the sandwiches or discarding what you decide not to eat -- you should at least keep the big outside Ziploc, because that will still be clean, and it's a good idea to have an extra Ziploc bag when you are traveling. They come in handy sometimes," I say, trying not to sound overly anal, and failing miserably.
"Okay," replies my son. No judgment or eye-rolling. Just the usual okay, thank goodness.
I find myself telling him random things like this with increasing frequency these days. It's as if I sense that my days with him are numbered, and I am realizing there is so much I am not sure he would think of on his own. My father was relentless in telling us the "right" way to do things, and, quite frankly, I still hear his voice today in my head, making me do things better. I fear I have failed my kids in this area, and I'm cramming it in now, in their teenage years. I doubt that they like it much, but they humor me by just saying "okay."
We drive across the Bay Bridge, lit up in its stark beauty against the black sky ... and then, it feels like only a minute before we are driving through the fogginess of South City. We have arrived at our destination: San Francisco Airport.
My husband tells me that he'll wait at the curb with the car -- no need to pay for parking when it will only be a few minutes to see our son off to the security checkpoint. I get out of the car to see Miles jokingly shaking hands with his father as they say their good-bye's, and am surprised when he turns to me, hand extended, saying "Bye, Mom ..."
"What? Oh! No, I'm walking in with you," I say as I give him a quick hug at the curb. "Where's your bag?"
"It's in the back. I'll get it," he zips over to get it and he follows me into the terminal. We stop in front of the monitors, looking up in unison. I see his flight information on the screen, but I don't say anything.
"US Airways. 6:15. On time. Gate 26," my son reads off the monitor. I'm glad I didn't say anything. My son is growing up. He's a seasoned traveler. He will be fine. I'm so relieved. I get ready to say my real good-bye to him.
"Okay -- have a good time," I say, as he hugs me and picks my feet off the floor in the process, "-- but not too much of a good time."
I chuckle, and he gives me the polite okay-that's-a-weird-mom-thing-to-say smile as he starts walking away from me ... and away from the entrance to the checkpoint.
"Wait! Miles! No -- you enter over there, under the sign that says: 'ENTER HERE' --"
"Oh, wait, what? Oh, okay ..."
And with that, my son walked off in the right direction, through the ID checkpoint.
He didn't look back once. I know, because I stood there, discreetly watching him, trying to stay out of his sight. I could have stood there and waved frantically, screaming, "MILES!!! MILES!!! DON'T FORGET TO CALL!!! MAKE SURE YOU REMEMBER TO EAT YOUR LUNCH! REMEMBER THE TIME DIFFERENCE! THEY ARE THREE HOURS AHEAD OF US! DO YOU HAVE YOUR TOOTHBRUSH? YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH, DIDN'T YOU? CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THERE!!! BYE!!!"
But, I didn't.
Instead, I watched in silence. Then, I noticed a few other adults standing randomly, facing towards the security checkpoint maze, much closer to the glass barrier that separates the travelers from those of us watching and waiting. I walk over to that area, not making eye contact with anybody, trying to keep my sight-line on my son.
"Excuse me, ma'am." I look down towards the voice of a man bending over near my foot. Apparently, I'm standing too close to a storefront gate that needs to open, so I apologize and move a few steps over. I look up. Where's Miles? Did he already get through security? Could he have gotten through so quickly?
I panic for a millisecond, then realize he is just blocked from my view by a post. I watch as he gets up to the pre-conveyor belt area, puts his bag on the table, grabs a bin, puts in his shoes, puts in his phone, takes off his sweatshirt, puts his backpack down, scoots his stuff over to make room for the person behind him, puts his sweatshirt into the bin, puts his bags on the conveyor belt, waits his turn, and steps into the screening machine. I see him put his hands up as the imaging device does its thing. It's getting harder to see him now, but I catch enough of him to see him grab something (his sweatshirt? yes, his sweatshirt), put on his sweatshirt and grab something else (his shoes?) and something else and something else and then move away from the conveyor belt.
He sits down and disappears from sight. I think about leaving, but wait a moment longer, and try to find him. Could that be him? No, not him. Is that him? It's hard to see with my old eyes, but I make out a young man wearing a hoodie. Is that him? That looks like his backpack. Ah, yes, and that's his bag.
That's him. My son. The young man.
I watch as he disappears down the concourse, not looking back.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
snapshot
We go about our lives, increasingly on display. In the old days (i.e., the late 1990’s) when internet service was slow and modems were noisy, with their boing-boing-ccchhhhhhh calls of power, we resorted to sharing via snail mail. A snapshot printed on a photo card, sent out during the holiday season. A few photos enclosed with a thank you note. This was about all we would present to the outside world: a glossy version of our lives, maybe with a carefully edited note on recent happenings.
The video version of our lives, of course, is undoubtedly less attractive. Yes, we now have YouTube, but I find it increasingly hard to believe that anything posted on there isn’t staged. And, the parts that are real, are still edited, in that holiday-card-ready kind of way. This is how we prefer to see our own, and each other’s lives. Nobody really wants to look at the outtakes, the parts that we want desperately to die a thousand deaths on the cutting room floor. And yet, somehow, it is those parts that tend to live on in some deep recesses of our minds, perhaps just reminding us that we, as human beings -- and especially when we human beings choose to live only within ourselves – are fallible and incomplete. It is the reaching out and connecting with others that makes us feel whole.
In our newfangled digital age, we see each other’s snapshots constantly on Facebook, Instagram, SnapChat (oops, wait I missed that!), tumblr, Twitter and probably a zillion other places. It was on Facebook that I saw a post from a friend that has made me think about these things. It said: Erik is missing. I looked at it and paused. Wasn’t her husband’s name Erik? This was not a post about a family pet. This was about her husband. I reached out via Facebook, and we spoke for the first time since our college years.
I would discover that the happy, carefree life of hers that I had viewed through the lens of holiday-card-emails and Facebook posts, had been punctuated by times of darkness that never showed in the snapshots I saw. Erik had battled an assortment of demons, with my friend holding her family together, insulating her children from the consequences of his addictions when she could, and finally setting boundaries on their interactions when she could not.
The struggles she faced living with a bipolar husband were finally highlighted, in video, on a newscast in Los Angeles. Although she is a very private person, she has shed her opaque veneer for a far more translucent one, with the public peering in on her and her family’s lives as they search for their husband and father, trading their privacy for the hope of finding him. She would continue peeling back the layers for the public, doing radio interviews, newspaper interviews, any medium that would take her story to a broader audience.
Summer has come and gone, still with no word on Erik’s whereabouts. And yet, there is hope – hope that he will be found, and hope that his story will help others. While I continue to post my own aspirational glossy snapshots, as well as view those of my friends, I will try to remember to reach out in real time, and be ready to lend support when the story behind the images is less than picture perfect.
For more information go to the Help Us Find Erik Lamberg page on Facebook.
The video version of our lives, of course, is undoubtedly less attractive. Yes, we now have YouTube, but I find it increasingly hard to believe that anything posted on there isn’t staged. And, the parts that are real, are still edited, in that holiday-card-ready kind of way. This is how we prefer to see our own, and each other’s lives. Nobody really wants to look at the outtakes, the parts that we want desperately to die a thousand deaths on the cutting room floor. And yet, somehow, it is those parts that tend to live on in some deep recesses of our minds, perhaps just reminding us that we, as human beings -- and especially when we human beings choose to live only within ourselves – are fallible and incomplete. It is the reaching out and connecting with others that makes us feel whole.
In our newfangled digital age, we see each other’s snapshots constantly on Facebook, Instagram, SnapChat (oops, wait I missed that!), tumblr, Twitter and probably a zillion other places. It was on Facebook that I saw a post from a friend that has made me think about these things. It said: Erik is missing. I looked at it and paused. Wasn’t her husband’s name Erik? This was not a post about a family pet. This was about her husband. I reached out via Facebook, and we spoke for the first time since our college years.
I would discover that the happy, carefree life of hers that I had viewed through the lens of holiday-card-emails and Facebook posts, had been punctuated by times of darkness that never showed in the snapshots I saw. Erik had battled an assortment of demons, with my friend holding her family together, insulating her children from the consequences of his addictions when she could, and finally setting boundaries on their interactions when she could not.
The struggles she faced living with a bipolar husband were finally highlighted, in video, on a newscast in Los Angeles. Although she is a very private person, she has shed her opaque veneer for a far more translucent one, with the public peering in on her and her family’s lives as they search for their husband and father, trading their privacy for the hope of finding him. She would continue peeling back the layers for the public, doing radio interviews, newspaper interviews, any medium that would take her story to a broader audience.
Summer has come and gone, still with no word on Erik’s whereabouts. And yet, there is hope – hope that he will be found, and hope that his story will help others. While I continue to post my own aspirational glossy snapshots, as well as view those of my friends, I will try to remember to reach out in real time, and be ready to lend support when the story behind the images is less than picture perfect.
For more information go to the Help Us Find Erik Lamberg page on Facebook.
Monday, July 29, 2013
ode to joe
I lost a good friend on Friday night. I will miss you so much, Joe. So glad I got to see you in May ... so sorry that I didn't get my act together to meet up with you since. I always thought I would see you again to share another meal, have another laugh, part with another heartfelt hug. It is truly unbelievable that you are gone.
****************************************
re-post of big buttons (february 2009)
My friend Joe looks down at me as I am buttoning my Woo Stassia coat, and comments,
"Whoa, those are some big buttons you've got there."
"Joe, I love it when you talk about my big buttons," I quip, knowing that he will find this amusing. He is, after all, always ready with a one-liner -- and I know this because we have known each other for over two decades now.
When I first met him, he was on a basketball court, even though it sometimes seemed that he was playing football. Off the court, he was usually wearing his Doc Martens, jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket. He wore his hair shaved around the back and sides, longer and slicked back on top -- clearly the inspiration for Gavin Newsom's current hairstyle. When we went out to a club, he wouldn't (or couldn't) do the Cabbage Patch. "Do your own dance!" he would say with a smile, as he busted some unique move that he must have created himself or learned during his days as a Valley Guy. He is one of the few people I know who is skinnier and in better shape than he was twenty years ago, but aside from his trimmed down physique, he is the same Joe to me. We used to bond over things like how to cut and roll a room, back in the day when we used to paint our own houses -- before we had kids.
The occasion for seeing Joe (and Nancy, Bill, Debbie, Tim, Ada, Jin, Peter, Steve, Onilda, Jackie and "the kids") tonight was a Happy Super Chinese New Year's Bowl Party, complete with chips & guacamole, calamari, roast duck, pressed duck, chicken, ribs, crab, shrimp, fish, chow mein, two different seafood & veggie dishes, fried rice, sticky rice, duck & organic greens salad, seven-layer jell-o, and a berry trifle made with Chinese sponge cake for dessert. Orchestrated by Debbie and Bill, we somehow managed to find a date when all of us and most of our kids were available to spend a few hours together. As we sat around the dinner table, we talked about how we all knew one another, and it was interesting to see that all of my relationships in that room were somehow tied to my summer clerkship for the Asian Law Caucus in 1987, when Bill took me with him to play basketball. It was great to just have some time together, talking about the old and the new; potty-training puppies and college applications; affirmative action and domestic violence; lumpia and egg rolls; Top Chef and CNN; the Cardinals and the Steelers. Real conversations in real time. Friendships that started out with being connected by something other than a Facebook link. Wow. What a concept.
Thanks for a great evening, and a toast to all the pre-Facebook friendships out there. And, yes, Joe -- I do have some really big buttons. I look forward to showing them to you again sometime soon.
****************************************
re-post of big buttons (february 2009)
My friend Joe looks down at me as I am buttoning my Woo Stassia coat, and comments,
"Whoa, those are some big buttons you've got there."
"Joe, I love it when you talk about my big buttons," I quip, knowing that he will find this amusing. He is, after all, always ready with a one-liner -- and I know this because we have known each other for over two decades now.
When I first met him, he was on a basketball court, even though it sometimes seemed that he was playing football. Off the court, he was usually wearing his Doc Martens, jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket. He wore his hair shaved around the back and sides, longer and slicked back on top -- clearly the inspiration for Gavin Newsom's current hairstyle. When we went out to a club, he wouldn't (or couldn't) do the Cabbage Patch. "Do your own dance!" he would say with a smile, as he busted some unique move that he must have created himself or learned during his days as a Valley Guy. He is one of the few people I know who is skinnier and in better shape than he was twenty years ago, but aside from his trimmed down physique, he is the same Joe to me. We used to bond over things like how to cut and roll a room, back in the day when we used to paint our own houses -- before we had kids.
The occasion for seeing Joe (and Nancy, Bill, Debbie, Tim, Ada, Jin, Peter, Steve, Onilda, Jackie and "the kids") tonight was a Happy Super Chinese New Year's Bowl Party, complete with chips & guacamole, calamari, roast duck, pressed duck, chicken, ribs, crab, shrimp, fish, chow mein, two different seafood & veggie dishes, fried rice, sticky rice, duck & organic greens salad, seven-layer jell-o, and a berry trifle made with Chinese sponge cake for dessert. Orchestrated by Debbie and Bill, we somehow managed to find a date when all of us and most of our kids were available to spend a few hours together. As we sat around the dinner table, we talked about how we all knew one another, and it was interesting to see that all of my relationships in that room were somehow tied to my summer clerkship for the Asian Law Caucus in 1987, when Bill took me with him to play basketball. It was great to just have some time together, talking about the old and the new; potty-training puppies and college applications; affirmative action and domestic violence; lumpia and egg rolls; Top Chef and CNN; the Cardinals and the Steelers. Real conversations in real time. Friendships that started out with being connected by something other than a Facebook link. Wow. What a concept.
Thanks for a great evening, and a toast to all the pre-Facebook friendships out there. And, yes, Joe -- I do have some really big buttons. I look forward to showing them to you again sometime soon.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
once a farmer
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After a while, the dog is still lying there, and I've run out of reading material. I feel an undeniable desire ... to do some gardening. I hop inside, grab my hat, my gloves, and my clippers. It's time to get to work.
I start with deadheading the roses, which are blooming much better this year since I remembered to prune them before Super Bowl Sunday (a tip a neighbor gave me at the first house we lived in, and I have tried to adhere to, even as the Super Bowl has been moved back into February). I trim back the vining thing with the little white flowers, so pretty to look at but an annoyance in the current layout. I will need to stay on this task throughout the summer, or it will get too friendly with the fig tree, pulling it into its grasp and strangling its limbs.
The dog is now rolling around, thrashing his head about and growling at some phantom playmate until he stops, breathing heavily, and continues what he was doing before: lying on the grass. I turn back to the yardwork, and I remember a discussion with my sister when we talked about our mutual love of gardening, and I can hear her saying, "I think our ancestors must have been farmers. I'll be pulling weeds out of muddy ground, and I always think about rice farmers, and how we probably had ancestors who did that." I think she's right. Or, perhaps, it's just being raised by parents who spent their childhoods in Japan, where nature and gardening are just treated with a different level of respect than it is in our American culture. We spent hours as kids pulling weeds and messing around with bugs, and I actually thought it was fun. Our garden always looked great, thanks to my parents and a couple of uncles who knew bonsaiand would help my dad trim our shrubs to perfection.
I also remember one day, pulling weeds with my husband and telling him what my sister said about our family coming from farmers. Without missing a beat, he stood there wearing a pair of my dad's old gardening gloves, both of us covered in a thin film of grime from being outside all day, and replied: "Yeah. I think my ancestors must have been merchants."Can I get a rimshot? Hey, diggy diggy ... the guy definitely knows how to make me laugh. And, I think he's right. Some of us are born to be close to the earth, and some of us would rather go make some money and pay somebody to do that. Luckily, I like being out here, and I have a dog who will remind me to come outside and tend to the roses.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
counting backwards
"What's up with the buttons?" Theresa blurts out at the deli ladies.
The deli ladies look like they are going to freak out. "Oh my god, the buttons! My mom collected buttons. The only thing I kept of hers is this box of buttons."
Clearly, Theresa had been sent to the deli to communicate these messages from the afterlife to the deli ladies, and the Long Island Medium has another successful segment for her show.
.JPG)
I am mesmerized. Although it's basically about dead people, this is a really happy show. This Theresa woman gets to deliver good messages to random people from beyond. A box of buttons, a stuffed shark hanging over a boy's bed, a pocket watch hidden in a sofa, a catch phrase, a nickname that nobody else knew about -- all of these things serve as her certificate of authenticity in a given situation. Tears of joy outnumber tears of sadness on this show.
As I watch episode after episode, unable to turn away and unaware that this was going to turn into some kind of marathon, I start thinking about my own mortality, counting backwards from the age I think I am likely to live until (based on family history) and calculate how old my children will be at that time. Not happy with that result, I start thinking about how old I will be when my children are my age, and am a tiny bit appalled at the answer.
To see my kids live up to my current age, I will have to live for a good 35 more years, and hopefully, go beyond that in an able-bodied manner that allows me to be useful to my kids or my grandchildren, experiencing the beauty of grandmotherhood without becoming a burden. Or, at least, not too much of a burden. That's a lot of years. By that time, my husband will be in his nineties. He has a good chance of reaching that ripe old age, thought, since he's got better long-life genes in his family than I do.
I remember my late father-in-law, then the spitting image of an active, healthy senior, sitting at our kitchen table, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. He was getting ready to drive into the City to talk to some folks at a senior center -- not for himself, but to see how they ran things, so he could apply these ideas back in Seattle -- and saying to me with a tone of disgust, "Ninety. My life expectancy is ninety! Now, they tell me I have to find something to keep me busy until I'm NINETY." He made it sound dreadful. Trying to make polite conversation, I offered something lame, like, "Well, you can golf ..." to which I'm sure he just shot me a look of disgust. He was tired of having to stay "busy" and challenge himself everyday, but that was what he would do, as long as he had anything to say about it. For him, relaxation was overrated.
One of my friends told me that when he turned fifty, he started counting how many days he had left in his projected life. This, he told me, was a natural thing to do, especially for men -- looking back on his life, and trying to project his future. Calculating that he would live to be eighty, he would have had 10,957 days left. It sounds like a lot, and it probably feels like a lot, too. Maybe it even feels like so many days that you would view it with dread. But if you start counting backwards everyday, suddenly the end is closer than it was yesterday, and one's time on earth feels much more finite.
It's easy to see only the mundane in our lives, when each day just feels like a laundry list of things to do, including doing laundry. I have the fleeting thought that perhaps I would value each day more if I had a way of reminding myself that our time on earth is limited. Maybe I would eat better. No, I mean really eat better. And watch my weight. And get organized, because how will anybody know where anything is when I'm gone?
What if I got a giant jar of 10,957 jellybeans and took one out each day, watching the jar become more and more empty as the years passed? Maybe that would help ... but I know I'll never do this. First of all, counting out all those jellybeans would take a long time, not to mention the difficulty of finding a jar big enough to hold them all. Also, I'm too superstitious to do this. What if I was meant to put 16,000 jellybeans in, and shortchanged myself by 5,043 days? What if I miscounted? What if somebody else ate the jellybeans while I wasn't looking and depleted the jar prematurely? I know it is silly and illogical to think that I would drop dead on-the-spot when the jar was empty (which I will attribute to having watched one too many Twilight Zone marathons), but why tempt fate? In any case, I will not be embarking on the jellybean jar experiment. Jar or no jar, my days are numbered, and I need to do a better job of valuing each day.
The deli ladies look like they are going to freak out. "Oh my god, the buttons! My mom collected buttons. The only thing I kept of hers is this box of buttons."
Clearly, Theresa had been sent to the deli to communicate these messages from the afterlife to the deli ladies, and the Long Island Medium has another successful segment for her show.
.JPG)
I am mesmerized. Although it's basically about dead people, this is a really happy show. This Theresa woman gets to deliver good messages to random people from beyond. A box of buttons, a stuffed shark hanging over a boy's bed, a pocket watch hidden in a sofa, a catch phrase, a nickname that nobody else knew about -- all of these things serve as her certificate of authenticity in a given situation. Tears of joy outnumber tears of sadness on this show.As I watch episode after episode, unable to turn away and unaware that this was going to turn into some kind of marathon, I start thinking about my own mortality, counting backwards from the age I think I am likely to live until (based on family history) and calculate how old my children will be at that time. Not happy with that result, I start thinking about how old I will be when my children are my age, and am a tiny bit appalled at the answer.
To see my kids live up to my current age, I will have to live for a good 35 more years, and hopefully, go beyond that in an able-bodied manner that allows me to be useful to my kids or my grandchildren, experiencing the beauty of grandmotherhood without becoming a burden. Or, at least, not too much of a burden. That's a lot of years. By that time, my husband will be in his nineties. He has a good chance of reaching that ripe old age, thought, since he's got better long-life genes in his family than I do.
I remember my late father-in-law, then the spitting image of an active, healthy senior, sitting at our kitchen table, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. He was getting ready to drive into the City to talk to some folks at a senior center -- not for himself, but to see how they ran things, so he could apply these ideas back in Seattle -- and saying to me with a tone of disgust, "Ninety. My life expectancy is ninety! Now, they tell me I have to find something to keep me busy until I'm NINETY." He made it sound dreadful. Trying to make polite conversation, I offered something lame, like, "Well, you can golf ..." to which I'm sure he just shot me a look of disgust. He was tired of having to stay "busy" and challenge himself everyday, but that was what he would do, as long as he had anything to say about it. For him, relaxation was overrated.
One of my friends told me that when he turned fifty, he started counting how many days he had left in his projected life. This, he told me, was a natural thing to do, especially for men -- looking back on his life, and trying to project his future. Calculating that he would live to be eighty, he would have had 10,957 days left. It sounds like a lot, and it probably feels like a lot, too. Maybe it even feels like so many days that you would view it with dread. But if you start counting backwards everyday, suddenly the end is closer than it was yesterday, and one's time on earth feels much more finite.
It's easy to see only the mundane in our lives, when each day just feels like a laundry list of things to do, including doing laundry. I have the fleeting thought that perhaps I would value each day more if I had a way of reminding myself that our time on earth is limited. Maybe I would eat better. No, I mean really eat better. And watch my weight. And get organized, because how will anybody know where anything is when I'm gone?
What if I got a giant jar of 10,957 jellybeans and took one out each day, watching the jar become more and more empty as the years passed? Maybe that would help ... but I know I'll never do this. First of all, counting out all those jellybeans would take a long time, not to mention the difficulty of finding a jar big enough to hold them all. Also, I'm too superstitious to do this. What if I was meant to put 16,000 jellybeans in, and shortchanged myself by 5,043 days? What if I miscounted? What if somebody else ate the jellybeans while I wasn't looking and depleted the jar prematurely? I know it is silly and illogical to think that I would drop dead on-the-spot when the jar was empty (which I will attribute to having watched one too many Twilight Zone marathons), but why tempt fate? In any case, I will not be embarking on the jellybean jar experiment. Jar or no jar, my days are numbered, and I need to do a better job of valuing each day.
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