There comes a time in every child's life when they realize that their parents were Right. It can come at any time, but it most often follows a disaster. A laundry mishap reveals that yes, it is a good idea to sort out the reds and whites. And picking at it does mean it won't heal. The big one, for most, comes when they raise their own children (and really, child-rearing is essentially a disaster that unfolds on a local, slow scale). The newly minted parent stares exasperated at their begotten brat and thinks, "Man, I'm glad I never behaved like that. ...Oh wait." And then you get your mom more flowers next Mother's Day.
For me, the moment came a little earlier. Three years ago, on the second year of my PhD studies, I went home to Saskatchewan for Christmas. That meant going from -5 celsius in southern Ontario to the -25 of the Prairies. It was a shock to the system, to say the least. The thing was--it never stopped being a shock. I spent the whole break shivering, wrapped in blankets, and complaining whenever anyone left the door open for more than a few seconds. And when I went back to Ontario, the chill persisted. And still persists, anytime the temperature starts to dip. I lost my innocence that Winter. Never again would I be someone who took their inner temperature for granted. Never again would "winter" be equated with coziness and warmth. No, from this day on... I would be Cold.
If anything, it's gotten worse over the years. And it manifests in strange ways. If I'm tired, I'm more prone to get Cold. If I get too Cold, I start coughing. The only solution, at that point, is to put on a toque--even if indoors--and, gradually, the coughing will subside. And there's more. From mid-October on, it's a rare day when I'm not wearing at least two pairs of socks. But recently, the socks haven't been enough. My feet are still Cold. And when they're Cold, I don't sleep. A few nights of this syllogism have convinced me that it's not something that can be borne on an ongoing basis.
My mother had a number of solutions for her own ongoing Coldness. She'd turn up the thermostat. She'd huddle under blankets. But the main solution was a heating pad. Every night, she'd toss her heating pad down the stairs for someone to microwave. We would do so, and toss it back up. (Some readers may inquire why we were tossing things up and down stairs instead of just walking up and down them. These people have probably never had the benefit of stairs in their domiciles. If you have multiple stories and you're not tossing things up and down stairs, you don't know what you're missing.) And for a few fleeting moments, the Cold would go.
We teased her about it, a little. About being so sensitive to the temperature, and whether she needed a blanket, and so forth. And, like all realizations concerning the wisdom and lives of parents, it's only in retrospect that you realize you were wrong, and feel bad about past actions. My mother was right. I suspect she might always be right. It's a cold world out there. Often, even a Cold one.
As for my own Cold problems, I think there's only one possible solution. I'm going to toss down the heating pad, and you put it in the microwave, okay? And don't make fun of my toque.
Later Days.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
Idiot. Just.... idiot.
I've never been very good at remembering things out of context. I forget directions, names, faces. I can watch a TV show for years, and be utterly unable to tell anyone the names of any of its characters if it's not going on right in front of me. I can do the same with people that I've been around for longer. I'm forgetful with objects, too. If I'm okay with keeping track of my keys if I always, always transfer them immediately to my pocket after using them, but if I set them down somewhere--well, they're just gone. After the third time I did that with a house key, I took to wearing it around my neck on a chain, the way some people do the cross. And at the risk of sounding blasphemous, I think a part of me hoped that the key around my neck would work as a sort of talisman, warding off future evil bouts of absent-minded forgetfulness.
Yeah, that didn't work very well.
Because another category of things I'm forgetful of is dates. More specifically, birthdays. Even more specifically, one birthday in particular. It's not my brothers'. Got those locked down. It's not my father's--I can remember that one by virtue of knowing it lands on the same day as two other people whose birthdays Facebook notifies me of. And it's not the birthday of the dog of my new roommate whom I've known for less than two weeks, which I know because it's written on our fridge. Nope. It's my mom's, it was yesterday, and damn my eyes for being an inconsiderate son, because I forgot again just like I do EVERY. SINGLE. YEAR. Even worse is that my poor memory was double-stacked against me. My father (you can bet HE always remembers) sent me a text to remind me to call, but because I forgot my phone, unplugged and unpowered all day, I didn't get the message until it was too late. (Well, almost too late; I was saved by virtue of the time difference between here and Saskatchewan--and my other got a literally eleventh hour phone call wishing her a happy birthday from the worst son ever.)
My mother is a wonderful, caring person (Actually, let's expand on that a little--it's no exaggeration to say that anything I have resembling a moral code comes from the example set by my parents; my mother has taught me how important it is to stand up for what you believe is right, even if it means standing up against those in power, or speaking for those who have none, just by doing it herself time and again. I could go on about that at great length, but the main subject here is how stupid I am, not the virtues of my family--otherwise, we'd be here all night), and gracefully forgave me my repeated offense, like she does every year. Frankly, I don't think I should be let off the hook so easily. I am a grown-ass man (you can generally tell how grown up someone is by the use of the word "ass"). At my age, people usually have a lot of responsibilities--spouses, children, proper jobs, mortgages, car payments--and they manage. Me, I can't get a damned "save the date" right. Not next year, though. This ain't happening again. I've set myself up a series of notifications: one from my work email, one from my personal email, one on the blog itself, one on Facebook, and one on my phone. Every one is set to trigger on September 6th of 2013, or the day before. Then we'll see who can and cannot remember a significant annual event. (Okay, technically I still won't remember it, but I'll have remembered that I won't remember it, and compensated accordingly.)
The worst part is that this is the second time I've forgotten my phone in the last two months, and the second time I nearly missed an important family event, or at least wasn't as much a part of it as I should have been because of that forgetfulness. I'm sick of doing that. My roommates, old and new, have their family over frequently, and I often feel a pang of loss when I think of the connection I gave up when I moved here. It's a connection that is important to me, and I feel that's grown a little more tenuous of late, and that's entirely my fault. I don't talk to my family enough, and I don't go home enough. The latter I can't do a lot about--finances and work keeps me away a lot. But I can do more about the talking. Admittedly, I really don't like talking on the phone, to anyone. Part of that's the context thing from earlier--I have a lot of trouble following what people are saying if there isn't a clear sense of place and embodiment to them. And there's a part of me that dreads nothing more than that static silence when no one can think of anything to say. (One of the perils of being in game studies is that your life is rather boring to those not interested in games.) So I let things slide, a bit. And a bit more. And so forth. Okay, fine; it's hard. It'll get easier, and it's time to make more of an effort. Mom, if you're reading this, I think the best thing that could come out of me forgetting AGAIN is that I use that mistake as a drive to reconnect with with my family. It's not much of a gift, but I hope you'll accept it anyway.
(Unless everyone else in the family is entirely happy with the current level of communication, and will actually be bothered by my attempts to increase it, in which case, um, I mean well. Sorry.)
Later Days.
Yeah, that didn't work very well.
Because another category of things I'm forgetful of is dates. More specifically, birthdays. Even more specifically, one birthday in particular. It's not my brothers'. Got those locked down. It's not my father's--I can remember that one by virtue of knowing it lands on the same day as two other people whose birthdays Facebook notifies me of. And it's not the birthday of the dog of my new roommate whom I've known for less than two weeks, which I know because it's written on our fridge. Nope. It's my mom's, it was yesterday, and damn my eyes for being an inconsiderate son, because I forgot again just like I do EVERY. SINGLE. YEAR. Even worse is that my poor memory was double-stacked against me. My father (you can bet HE always remembers) sent me a text to remind me to call, but because I forgot my phone, unplugged and unpowered all day, I didn't get the message until it was too late. (Well, almost too late; I was saved by virtue of the time difference between here and Saskatchewan--and my other got a literally eleventh hour phone call wishing her a happy birthday from the worst son ever.)
My mother is a wonderful, caring person (Actually, let's expand on that a little--it's no exaggeration to say that anything I have resembling a moral code comes from the example set by my parents; my mother has taught me how important it is to stand up for what you believe is right, even if it means standing up against those in power, or speaking for those who have none, just by doing it herself time and again. I could go on about that at great length, but the main subject here is how stupid I am, not the virtues of my family--otherwise, we'd be here all night), and gracefully forgave me my repeated offense, like she does every year. Frankly, I don't think I should be let off the hook so easily. I am a grown-ass man (you can generally tell how grown up someone is by the use of the word "ass"). At my age, people usually have a lot of responsibilities--spouses, children, proper jobs, mortgages, car payments--and they manage. Me, I can't get a damned "save the date" right. Not next year, though. This ain't happening again. I've set myself up a series of notifications: one from my work email, one from my personal email, one on the blog itself, one on Facebook, and one on my phone. Every one is set to trigger on September 6th of 2013, or the day before. Then we'll see who can and cannot remember a significant annual event. (Okay, technically I still won't remember it, but I'll have remembered that I won't remember it, and compensated accordingly.)
The worst part is that this is the second time I've forgotten my phone in the last two months, and the second time I nearly missed an important family event, or at least wasn't as much a part of it as I should have been because of that forgetfulness. I'm sick of doing that. My roommates, old and new, have their family over frequently, and I often feel a pang of loss when I think of the connection I gave up when I moved here. It's a connection that is important to me, and I feel that's grown a little more tenuous of late, and that's entirely my fault. I don't talk to my family enough, and I don't go home enough. The latter I can't do a lot about--finances and work keeps me away a lot. But I can do more about the talking. Admittedly, I really don't like talking on the phone, to anyone. Part of that's the context thing from earlier--I have a lot of trouble following what people are saying if there isn't a clear sense of place and embodiment to them. And there's a part of me that dreads nothing more than that static silence when no one can think of anything to say. (One of the perils of being in game studies is that your life is rather boring to those not interested in games.) So I let things slide, a bit. And a bit more. And so forth. Okay, fine; it's hard. It'll get easier, and it's time to make more of an effort. Mom, if you're reading this, I think the best thing that could come out of me forgetting AGAIN is that I use that mistake as a drive to reconnect with with my family. It's not much of a gift, but I hope you'll accept it anyway.
(Unless everyone else in the family is entirely happy with the current level of communication, and will actually be bothered by my attempts to increase it, in which case, um, I mean well. Sorry.)
Later Days.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Short Yet Heartfelt Conclusion
Sorry for the delay, but I've always found the posts that aren't comedy-based or theory-based to be a bit harder to get out. All right, some background here. My aunt passed away a few weeks ago. It was from a brain tumor that had been growing for years now, and her quality of life had been diminished for quite some time. The wake was held on Thanksgiving weekend, and since a flight out to her home province would have cost upwards of $800, I talked it over with my parents and decided that it wouldn't make sense for me to fly out to be there. It wasn't an easy decision, and I struggled with it. I would have liked to be there with the family. By large, my interactions with my aunt had always occurred in that setting: family trips, weddings, birthdays. And that would have been an appropriate circumstances to say goodbye to her.
But, well, I didn't go out, so I needed/need to say goodbye to her in a different way. I was hoping this series of posts would help me work through what she meant to me. There's no single answer; in addition to what she meant with me in the context of our mutual family, there's also the undeniable fact that I associate my aunt with the city she lived in. I doubt I'll ever be able to go there without thinking of her--visiting her house and staying with her there has seeped into my bones from all the times in my childhood to my adulthood. (If you're curious about the city, I'll give you a hint: start in Winnipeg, and travel waaaaay west. If you've hit Victoria, you've gone too far. And you're also very wet.)
It's funny; when I think of a person, I often can't divorce what they mean to me from the time and place that I knew them in. (Or maybe not so funny. We're human beings, and we live in one place at a time, linearly.) Who is my aunt to me, what defines her to me outside of the family position, and her geographical location?
My aunt was a strong person.
Not physically, since her height and frame didn't really lend itself to that sort of thing, but in terms of an strong will, and a strong sense of self. Without getting into a past that I really have no right to divulge, she spent a long period of her life alone. And compared to the family I was used to, she drank more, smoked more, and, um, used saltier language (which, to the mind of a young boy, just made her that much more appealing yet feared). She bore her adversities--brain tumor and all--with a lot of pride and a lot of dignity, and, consequently, a sort of grace. She was a strong person, and for that strength, I'll always admire her and look to her as inspiration.
To connect this more thoroughly to my previous posts, and without diminishing my admiration for my aunt in any way, strength in general is a hallmark of the women in my family. On both sides, the women are no wilting wallflowers; they stand their ground, and if you cross them, believe me, you'll know it. (Unlike the men. We're kind of the strong, silent type.) My family tree is a cornucopia of empowered women, working as teachers (lots of teachers), nurses, concierges, zoo workers, paralegals, and film-makers. (And I'd imagine a few significant positions I've forgotten. Which I'm sure I'll hear about later in great detail.)
To tie back to the first post, one of the reasons I felt so indignant towards the effacing of the Little Mermaid's female family is that I've felt so gifted for my own. And to tie it back to the second post, I don't know why I've been less drawn to women creators in my fiction or research. But I know for certain it's not because I think that women don't have anything to contribute. I've lived with example of example of strong, vibrant women all my life. It never occurred to me that they'd be any other way.
So here's to my aunt, and all the other proud and independent women in my life, family or otherwise. I'd say keep up the good work, but frankly, I'd like you to slow down a bit; you're making the other genders look bad.
Later Days.
But, well, I didn't go out, so I needed/need to say goodbye to her in a different way. I was hoping this series of posts would help me work through what she meant to me. There's no single answer; in addition to what she meant with me in the context of our mutual family, there's also the undeniable fact that I associate my aunt with the city she lived in. I doubt I'll ever be able to go there without thinking of her--visiting her house and staying with her there has seeped into my bones from all the times in my childhood to my adulthood. (If you're curious about the city, I'll give you a hint: start in Winnipeg, and travel waaaaay west. If you've hit Victoria, you've gone too far. And you're also very wet.)
It's funny; when I think of a person, I often can't divorce what they mean to me from the time and place that I knew them in. (Or maybe not so funny. We're human beings, and we live in one place at a time, linearly.) Who is my aunt to me, what defines her to me outside of the family position, and her geographical location?
My aunt was a strong person.
Not physically, since her height and frame didn't really lend itself to that sort of thing, but in terms of an strong will, and a strong sense of self. Without getting into a past that I really have no right to divulge, she spent a long period of her life alone. And compared to the family I was used to, she drank more, smoked more, and, um, used saltier language (which, to the mind of a young boy, just made her that much more appealing yet feared). She bore her adversities--brain tumor and all--with a lot of pride and a lot of dignity, and, consequently, a sort of grace. She was a strong person, and for that strength, I'll always admire her and look to her as inspiration.
To connect this more thoroughly to my previous posts, and without diminishing my admiration for my aunt in any way, strength in general is a hallmark of the women in my family. On both sides, the women are no wilting wallflowers; they stand their ground, and if you cross them, believe me, you'll know it. (Unlike the men. We're kind of the strong, silent type.) My family tree is a cornucopia of empowered women, working as teachers (lots of teachers), nurses, concierges, zoo workers, paralegals, and film-makers. (And I'd imagine a few significant positions I've forgotten. Which I'm sure I'll hear about later in great detail.)
To tie back to the first post, one of the reasons I felt so indignant towards the effacing of the Little Mermaid's female family is that I've felt so gifted for my own. And to tie it back to the second post, I don't know why I've been less drawn to women creators in my fiction or research. But I know for certain it's not because I think that women don't have anything to contribute. I've lived with example of example of strong, vibrant women all my life. It never occurred to me that they'd be any other way.
So here's to my aunt, and all the other proud and independent women in my life, family or otherwise. I'd say keep up the good work, but frankly, I'd like you to slow down a bit; you're making the other genders look bad.
Later Days.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
REGULAR POSTS WILL RESUME SOME DAY.
Honest, they will. Just not soon, because I'm taking off to Toronto for a few days with the parents. So here's a catch up session, bullet-style.
Later Days.
- The Folks Arrived Last Thursday. Me: Are you sure you guys want to stay here? I mean, I only have one bed. Folks: No problem. We'll stop after the airport at IKEA and buy a bed. Me: (envisioning free bed) Well, all right then. And you got me a new keyboard? And... my God, is that a printer/scanner? Welcome, parents!
- Oktoberfest. Doesn't any young man dream of a night on the town with his parents? Seriously though, it was a lot of fun. Highlights included: the middle-aged woman who decided to sit down and start talking to us for no particular reason; watching my parents be rather uncomfortable at the second Pavillion which featured a few hundred people with an average age of around 20; and watching a traditional German dance that involved chopping wood. There's something very Canadian about drinking beer and watching people chop wood.
- Best Thanksgiving Ever. Man, it was awesome. Last Saturday, I went over to a friend's house, and got a full helping or two of Thanskgiving, East Coast style. Then on Sunday, it was a family dinner with the folks, all Prairie style. (I honestly didn't realise how much I missed a family thanksgiving until I had one. Thanks so much for being here, parental units.) And on Monday, it was dinner at another friend's house, Ontario vegetarian style. At the third dinner, the hostess's niece (three years old? Six? I'm no good with kids' ages) ran around in circles singing nursery rhymes at the top of your lungs. (I honestly didn't realise how much I missed having little kids around until I had one. And then I quickly realised how much I missed not having them around.) There was much food eaten. Too much, frankly. I need to either pick up my running routine immediately, or make plans to hibernate. Most important part: I HAD SIX KINDS OF PIE. (I knew exactly how much I missed having pie. And it was glorious.)
- The Play. Yesterday, my parents took me to a play. More specifically, a musical. Which thus makes it more awesome. It was A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Forum. It's much, much better live than it is in the movie version, Zero Mostel and Buster Keaton notwithstanding. The down part is that I chose to spend from 1:00 to 6:00 reading lit theory, and it literally gave me a migraine headache, which is not particularly conducive to play enjoyment. Oh, lit theory. Is there anything you won't ruin?
Later Days.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Grandma
The funeral went fairly well; family and friends went over to my brothers' place afterward, and it was nice to have everyone together. (A particular thanks goes out to LN, for the confectioneries she provided. I personally ate at least half of them, so I figured a personal thank you was appropriate.)
I've been putting this post off because I wanted time to do it full justice, but now that I'm looking at the screen in front of me, I'm not sure where to start. Essentially, I want to talk about what my grandmother meant to me. It's a daunting task.
Let's start with the bad part. I don't think I knew my grandmother that well. There's a lot of reasons for this. As readers know, I like video games, comic books, and esoteric literature. My grandmother enjoyed cooking, gardening, and was an active participant in her church. There's not a lot of overlap there. And by the time I was branching out, she had her stroke, which meant that direct conversation was more or less replaced by just being there for her. And while I wasn't there as much as I could have been, I hope that when I was there counts for something.
Most of what I do remember about my grandparents--they're together in my mind, so they're going to be together here too--comes from my childhood memories, and my memories of their home in Someplace Else. So:
I remember their backyard. I remember the biggest garden I've ever seen, and picking up rocks in their flower bed to look at the insects underneath. (This was a group sport. Find the biggest worm, and you win.)
I remember the whole family going on walks to nearby parks,and playing on the playground--which was, of course, much, much better than the playground back home.
I remember Grandpa's tandem bike--not the usual affair, but two bikes joined together, with a lawn chair or something tied to the rear end, for extra seating. This strikes me now as an elaborate accident waiting to happen, but even now, its sheer coolness must be appreciated.
I remember summer trips to the nearby campground. I've never been that fond of camping, but to this day, it's a family activity in my mind.
I remember watching my grandmother cooking--whether it was making soup, making cookies, or shelling peas. Sometimes, in the latter activity, I even helped. Not often though.
I remember my Grandpa's train set that he kept in the basement. The height of childhood responsibility was being allowed to slowly--slowly-- accelerate the train along the track without supervision.
I remember that this set was in the same room as their piano, a great big hulking thing that was perhaps the most out-of-tune instrument I've ever used. But I still had to use it; just because we were at the Grandparents' house for a weekend was not accepted as a reason to skip the piano practice.
I remember the games. Kerplunk, dominoes, and, of course, tri-ominoes, a game which I still think is nigh incomprehensible. There were numbers, and they lined up, and afterward, Grandma told you who won.
I remember the toys. These were purchased purely for the grandchildren's amusements: play phones, fisherprice barnyard figures, and others. These were toys that had to stay at the grandparents' house, which gave them a whole different value.
I remember hours spent in front of their TV. (We were lazy grandchildren.) My grandparents got channels that just weren't available in our rural home town. (We didn't get satellite at home until I moved away. I never saw an episode of Seinfeld until my last year of high school. I was deprived.)
More to the point, I remember my grandparents' video collection. Each video was watched over and over and over again. I have seen Homeward Bound more times than any other movie in my life. I'm not sure exactly what effect that has had on me, besides believing that every animal, if it could talk, would sound like Michael J. Fox.
What does my grandmother mean to me? She means the unconditional love of family. The support of someone who believes in you and your potential, even if they aren't entirely on board with semiotic analysis or algebraic semi-groups. The knowledge that home is more than a single location, that it's where you feel safe and loved.
My grandmother was a large part of my world, and she means the world to me.
Later Days.
I've been putting this post off because I wanted time to do it full justice, but now that I'm looking at the screen in front of me, I'm not sure where to start. Essentially, I want to talk about what my grandmother meant to me. It's a daunting task.
Let's start with the bad part. I don't think I knew my grandmother that well. There's a lot of reasons for this. As readers know, I like video games, comic books, and esoteric literature. My grandmother enjoyed cooking, gardening, and was an active participant in her church. There's not a lot of overlap there. And by the time I was branching out, she had her stroke, which meant that direct conversation was more or less replaced by just being there for her. And while I wasn't there as much as I could have been, I hope that when I was there counts for something.
Most of what I do remember about my grandparents--they're together in my mind, so they're going to be together here too--comes from my childhood memories, and my memories of their home in Someplace Else. So:
I remember their backyard. I remember the biggest garden I've ever seen, and picking up rocks in their flower bed to look at the insects underneath. (This was a group sport. Find the biggest worm, and you win.)
I remember the whole family going on walks to nearby parks,and playing on the playground--which was, of course, much, much better than the playground back home.
I remember Grandpa's tandem bike--not the usual affair, but two bikes joined together, with a lawn chair or something tied to the rear end, for extra seating. This strikes me now as an elaborate accident waiting to happen, but even now, its sheer coolness must be appreciated.
I remember summer trips to the nearby campground. I've never been that fond of camping, but to this day, it's a family activity in my mind.
I remember watching my grandmother cooking--whether it was making soup, making cookies, or shelling peas. Sometimes, in the latter activity, I even helped. Not often though.
I remember my Grandpa's train set that he kept in the basement. The height of childhood responsibility was being allowed to slowly--slowly-- accelerate the train along the track without supervision.
I remember that this set was in the same room as their piano, a great big hulking thing that was perhaps the most out-of-tune instrument I've ever used. But I still had to use it; just because we were at the Grandparents' house for a weekend was not accepted as a reason to skip the piano practice.
I remember the games. Kerplunk, dominoes, and, of course, tri-ominoes, a game which I still think is nigh incomprehensible. There were numbers, and they lined up, and afterward, Grandma told you who won.
I remember the toys. These were purchased purely for the grandchildren's amusements: play phones, fisherprice barnyard figures, and others. These were toys that had to stay at the grandparents' house, which gave them a whole different value.
I remember hours spent in front of their TV. (We were lazy grandchildren.) My grandparents got channels that just weren't available in our rural home town. (We didn't get satellite at home until I moved away. I never saw an episode of Seinfeld until my last year of high school. I was deprived.)
More to the point, I remember my grandparents' video collection. Each video was watched over and over and over again. I have seen Homeward Bound more times than any other movie in my life. I'm not sure exactly what effect that has had on me, besides believing that every animal, if it could talk, would sound like Michael J. Fox.
What does my grandmother mean to me? She means the unconditional love of family. The support of someone who believes in you and your potential, even if they aren't entirely on board with semiotic analysis or algebraic semi-groups. The knowledge that home is more than a single location, that it's where you feel safe and loved.
My grandmother was a large part of my world, and she means the world to me.
Later Days.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sask Trip Day 6: The Best Thing Ever
To bring the story back up to speed, I'm in Saskatchewan, it's June 6th, and my mother's retirement party has just ended. My brothers and I then proceed to drive back up to Someplace Else. We take two vehicles, and I wind up in the family van with the middle brother. (Known now and forever more as MB.)
We're about 20 minutes from Someplace Else when we see a vehicle by the side of the road, with its driver standing beside it, arms waving. We stop, and a brief conversation takes place. His car has been damaged from hitting... something... and we agree to give him a ride back into town.
The subsequent drive was one of the most amusing things I've ever experienced in a moving vehicle.
In essence, we had a long talk with the guy. Well, I say talk, but 'monologue' would be a better description. If someone is giving you a free ride, I think offering something of similar value is appropriate; in this case, we got a life story. (He overpaid, frankly. If there had been more time, we would have had to give him two anecdotes and a reminiscence for change.) He started out simple. He was in town for a band council meeting, and was heading back after visiting some friends. That much we got out of him between his attempts to phone his family. ("Hey S----! I just got in an accident, and the airbag caved my head in, but I'm fine. I SAID I JUST GOT IN AN ACCIDENT AND THE AIRBAG---" Imagine this three or four times.)
Next, he confided that he had two sons who would have been about our age--if they hadn't both died at young ages from horrible accidents, which he proceeded to describe. Which segued nicely into describing his daughters (one just finished a degree, the other's in law enforcement) and we slowly steered the conversational boat into less rocky waters. Then a tempest came out of nowhere, as he switched to the other family tragedy: his brother had been the victim of a hit and run, that, he told us, was probably not an accident at all but arranged to look like an accident by a man who had it in for him. Try bringing that up in conversation with people you've known for less time than it takes to watch an episode of the Simpsons. See how that goes.
The final bit came as we drove through the city to his room at the Ramada. You may have been questioning our choice at picking up a hitchhiker to begin with. Don't worry, so did our hitchhiker. Here's how the conversation went, as close as I can remember it:
"You gotta be careful who you pick up these days. Never know who you're going to get. One time, I was driving with my wife and my daughters, and they were just little things then, and we saw a hitchhiker, and my wife didn't want to stop, but I thought, well, he could use some help, and we stopped. And we drove him to Banff, it was just a few miles, and I told my wife that she had nothing to worry about. But that night, hey, we were watching tv, and he was on the FBI Most Wanted!
"It just goes to show you, you never know who you pick up. He could be dangerous, or have a gun."
(Pause.)
"You don't worry about me, though--I don't have a gun."
(Thoughtful pause.)
"'Cept the one I keep in my pants, for the ladies. (short pause) And that one don't work so well no more."
(dead silence)
Around that time, we reached the hotel. I think he sensed he may have touched a conversational line, so he apologized a few times, thanked us, and disappeared out of our lives forever.
But not our hearts. Or my conversation, for weeks after.
I read a lot, and I aspire towards writing. But there are very few works or writers I know that could get away with a character like that. And God bless 'im for it.
Next installment: At long last, Day 3. Also: drinking in the afternoon.
Later Days
We're about 20 minutes from Someplace Else when we see a vehicle by the side of the road, with its driver standing beside it, arms waving. We stop, and a brief conversation takes place. His car has been damaged from hitting... something... and we agree to give him a ride back into town.
The subsequent drive was one of the most amusing things I've ever experienced in a moving vehicle.
In essence, we had a long talk with the guy. Well, I say talk, but 'monologue' would be a better description. If someone is giving you a free ride, I think offering something of similar value is appropriate; in this case, we got a life story. (He overpaid, frankly. If there had been more time, we would have had to give him two anecdotes and a reminiscence for change.) He started out simple. He was in town for a band council meeting, and was heading back after visiting some friends. That much we got out of him between his attempts to phone his family. ("Hey S----! I just got in an accident, and the airbag caved my head in, but I'm fine. I SAID I JUST GOT IN AN ACCIDENT AND THE AIRBAG---" Imagine this three or four times.)
Next, he confided that he had two sons who would have been about our age--if they hadn't both died at young ages from horrible accidents, which he proceeded to describe. Which segued nicely into describing his daughters (one just finished a degree, the other's in law enforcement) and we slowly steered the conversational boat into less rocky waters. Then a tempest came out of nowhere, as he switched to the other family tragedy: his brother had been the victim of a hit and run, that, he told us, was probably not an accident at all but arranged to look like an accident by a man who had it in for him. Try bringing that up in conversation with people you've known for less time than it takes to watch an episode of the Simpsons. See how that goes.
The final bit came as we drove through the city to his room at the Ramada. You may have been questioning our choice at picking up a hitchhiker to begin with. Don't worry, so did our hitchhiker. Here's how the conversation went, as close as I can remember it:
"You gotta be careful who you pick up these days. Never know who you're going to get. One time, I was driving with my wife and my daughters, and they were just little things then, and we saw a hitchhiker, and my wife didn't want to stop, but I thought, well, he could use some help, and we stopped. And we drove him to Banff, it was just a few miles, and I told my wife that she had nothing to worry about. But that night, hey, we were watching tv, and he was on the FBI Most Wanted!
"It just goes to show you, you never know who you pick up. He could be dangerous, or have a gun."
(Pause.)
"You don't worry about me, though--I don't have a gun."
(Thoughtful pause.)
"'Cept the one I keep in my pants, for the ladies. (short pause) And that one don't work so well no more."
(dead silence)
Around that time, we reached the hotel. I think he sensed he may have touched a conversational line, so he apologized a few times, thanked us, and disappeared out of our lives forever.
But not our hearts. Or my conversation, for weeks after.
I read a lot, and I aspire towards writing. But there are very few works or writers I know that could get away with a character like that. And God bless 'im for it.
Next installment: At long last, Day 3. Also: drinking in the afternoon.
Later Days
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sask Trip 5: Mushy Parental Edition
There's been a bad turn in the family recently, and I'm kind of hoping this post will be a bit of a morale booster. I'm also hoping it will go a bit of the distance towards a proper Father's Day gift, since the two minute phone call I made yesterday arguably falls a bit short.
For those still following at home, I'm nearing the end of day two of my Sask Trip. At this point, the shopping expedition is over, and my brothers and I are on a brief road trip, to attend my mother's Retirement Banquet. She is/was/always already (Althusser joke!) retiring after decades of teaching this year, and she and the other retirees in her school division were being honored by the division at a banquet. I'd changed my original departure date and skipped a class so that I could be there, and--to skip to the ending--I was really glad I was there.
It was, not that I have a lot of experience, a fairly typical event. The food was good, albeit slightly ridiculous (dessert was a cup of whip cream, with graham cracker crumbs--what is that? Did Jello prove too difficult?). The cash bar was well-stocked. The speeches were more or less what you'd expect from such an event--some really heart-felt reflections on teaching, a few good jokes, and a lot of jokes whose goodness depended heavily on how much you'd invested in the aforementioned cash bar.
I wasn't there for the event. I was there to spend some time with my parents--given that there was an NDP convention that weekend, our paths weren't going to cross too often. I was also there to give some support to my parents, something that isn't easy to do with a few hundred kilometers normally in the way. So basically, my role that evening was to look appreciative while ignoring the complaints of a brother who didn't like being out past 9 pm on a work day. (Seriously. That was his complaint. Now repeat 10 times a half-hour for about three hours.) But even though I was removed from most of it (except for the thank-you speech given on behalf of the retirees by my mother, which was well said, even if it was short on 18th century literary quotations), I couldn't help feel that there was something missing from the affair. Something that was not only a part of a teacher mass retirement, but a necessary condition. It was about half way through the proceedings when I figured it out.
What's missing was the students.
To me, growing up in a family with two teachers as parents, I know that students aren't the only part of the job. There's marking, dealing with parents, being forced into the bureaucracy, lesson plans, textbook budgets, and other thoroughly unpleasant activities. But the students that are the important part. That the auditorium wasn't filled to the roster with children giving testimonies these people made in their lives--that felt wrong to me. Now, I know that that wasn't the purpose of the banquet, and I know that, in my mother's case at least, the public student acknowledgement was coming later. But it was at that point that I really realized that I was glad to be there--not only glad, but lucky. Because for my mother, at least, the students weren't missing. There were three of them sitting right at that table, come especially for her.
Let me be explicit here: as a life spent in academia, I've had a lot of teachers. I've had elementary school teachers, guidance counselors, high school teachers, tutors, TAs, professors, and every possible variation you can imagine. But my first and most important teachers are my parents. While others have taught me how to do this subject or that, they've taught me how to be a person and everything you can say to me to my credit should properly be creditted to them.
All right, let's bring this Hallmark moment to a close.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
Congratulations on the retirement, Mom.
And whatever happens in the next few days, your family member out east is thinking about you, and is proud to be your son.
Later Days.
For those still following at home, I'm nearing the end of day two of my Sask Trip. At this point, the shopping expedition is over, and my brothers and I are on a brief road trip, to attend my mother's Retirement Banquet. She is/was/always already (Althusser joke!) retiring after decades of teaching this year, and she and the other retirees in her school division were being honored by the division at a banquet. I'd changed my original departure date and skipped a class so that I could be there, and--to skip to the ending--I was really glad I was there.
It was, not that I have a lot of experience, a fairly typical event. The food was good, albeit slightly ridiculous (dessert was a cup of whip cream, with graham cracker crumbs--what is that? Did Jello prove too difficult?). The cash bar was well-stocked. The speeches were more or less what you'd expect from such an event--some really heart-felt reflections on teaching, a few good jokes, and a lot of jokes whose goodness depended heavily on how much you'd invested in the aforementioned cash bar.
I wasn't there for the event. I was there to spend some time with my parents--given that there was an NDP convention that weekend, our paths weren't going to cross too often. I was also there to give some support to my parents, something that isn't easy to do with a few hundred kilometers normally in the way. So basically, my role that evening was to look appreciative while ignoring the complaints of a brother who didn't like being out past 9 pm on a work day. (Seriously. That was his complaint. Now repeat 10 times a half-hour for about three hours.) But even though I was removed from most of it (except for the thank-you speech given on behalf of the retirees by my mother, which was well said, even if it was short on 18th century literary quotations), I couldn't help feel that there was something missing from the affair. Something that was not only a part of a teacher mass retirement, but a necessary condition. It was about half way through the proceedings when I figured it out.
What's missing was the students.
To me, growing up in a family with two teachers as parents, I know that students aren't the only part of the job. There's marking, dealing with parents, being forced into the bureaucracy, lesson plans, textbook budgets, and other thoroughly unpleasant activities. But the students that are the important part. That the auditorium wasn't filled to the roster with children giving testimonies these people made in their lives--that felt wrong to me. Now, I know that that wasn't the purpose of the banquet, and I know that, in my mother's case at least, the public student acknowledgement was coming later. But it was at that point that I really realized that I was glad to be there--not only glad, but lucky. Because for my mother, at least, the students weren't missing. There were three of them sitting right at that table, come especially for her.
Let me be explicit here: as a life spent in academia, I've had a lot of teachers. I've had elementary school teachers, guidance counselors, high school teachers, tutors, TAs, professors, and every possible variation you can imagine. But my first and most important teachers are my parents. While others have taught me how to do this subject or that, they've taught me how to be a person and everything you can say to me to my credit should properly be creditted to them.
All right, let's bring this Hallmark moment to a close.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
Congratulations on the retirement, Mom.
And whatever happens in the next few days, your family member out east is thinking about you, and is proud to be your son.
Later Days.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
They're Not Clouds, But They Are Fluffy and Soft
My family is not one given to many traditions. Of the few we have, some are bitterly, bitterly contested. (You know who you are, Christmas Holiday Cracker. With your loud noise, your festive hat, your little toy, and oh-smug-riddle. Pick one thing and be it!) But there's one that stands out as memorable: Sunday is pancake day.
Granted, as the great Consequence family diaspora took hold, the tradition has fallen into disuse. And even at its height, it was a series of careful negotiations and opposing ideological stances. Substance. How much syrup is too much? Is it time we got a waffle iron? Is cheese whiz an acceptable condiment? Is peanut butter an acceptable alternative? And time. Do we have pancakes before Church, or after Church? Are we going to church? Do we have to go to church? I know there are pancake, but how do I know there is a God?
Theology and food. What more could a family ask for?
Second stream of thought: I have recently decided to add cooking to my skills. (Purely to attract women. Every improvement I have ever made in my life has been to this end. And if I ever tell you any differently, I'm lying.) I started with eggs (to align myself with previous conversations, I think the chickens that laid them were free range. Probably. The picture on the carton hinted as much. Look, I'm not trial here.). Results have been mixed. So far, I have "mastered" three types: scrambled, runny, and burnt. Rather than refine this effort in any way shape or form, I decided that my culinary difficulty stemmed from a lack of ambition. Thus, I invited my postcolonial class to come over to my place next Thursday to watch the movie version of our first novel--and to attend a pancake dinner. I also promised I make "a damn good pancake," which I assumed must be true. It's practically my family heritage. That, and squinting.
Ultimately, I decided not to leave everything up to fate. I called up my brother yesterday, and got the pancake recipe he used when I was last living with him. And I tried a trial run. And again--mixed results. See, I forgot that the recipe my brother used was for when he was living in a house with four early twenty male bachelors--and even then, the proportions were chosen so that there'd be plenty of leftovers. I live alone. Problem. To compound matters, I accidentally put in twice as much milk as was required into the batter. That meant the only way to save the batch was to double all my ingredients--and double the amount of pancakes I'd produce.
Good news: by the time next Thursday rolls around, I will be as good a pancake expert as I pretended to be.
Bad news: There is no time in the forseeable future in which I will not be eating pancakes. I have made a dozen so far, and barely made a dent in the total batter. It's a good thing pancakes are loaded with nostalgic value for me, 'cause I'm going to be dining on nostalgia for quite some time.
Cooking Rule of Thumb #1: If your recipe involves 8 eggs and you're cooking for one, there will be leftovers.
Later Days.
Granted, as the great Consequence family diaspora took hold, the tradition has fallen into disuse. And even at its height, it was a series of careful negotiations and opposing ideological stances. Substance. How much syrup is too much? Is it time we got a waffle iron? Is cheese whiz an acceptable condiment? Is peanut butter an acceptable alternative? And time. Do we have pancakes before Church, or after Church? Are we going to church? Do we have to go to church? I know there are pancake, but how do I know there is a God?
Theology and food. What more could a family ask for?
Second stream of thought: I have recently decided to add cooking to my skills. (Purely to attract women. Every improvement I have ever made in my life has been to this end. And if I ever tell you any differently, I'm lying.) I started with eggs (to align myself with previous conversations, I think the chickens that laid them were free range. Probably. The picture on the carton hinted as much. Look, I'm not trial here.). Results have been mixed. So far, I have "mastered" three types: scrambled, runny, and burnt. Rather than refine this effort in any way shape or form, I decided that my culinary difficulty stemmed from a lack of ambition. Thus, I invited my postcolonial class to come over to my place next Thursday to watch the movie version of our first novel--and to attend a pancake dinner. I also promised I make "a damn good pancake," which I assumed must be true. It's practically my family heritage. That, and squinting.
Ultimately, I decided not to leave everything up to fate. I called up my brother yesterday, and got the pancake recipe he used when I was last living with him. And I tried a trial run. And again--mixed results. See, I forgot that the recipe my brother used was for when he was living in a house with four early twenty male bachelors--and even then, the proportions were chosen so that there'd be plenty of leftovers. I live alone. Problem. To compound matters, I accidentally put in twice as much milk as was required into the batter. That meant the only way to save the batch was to double all my ingredients--and double the amount of pancakes I'd produce.
Good news: by the time next Thursday rolls around, I will be as good a pancake expert as I pretended to be.
Bad news: There is no time in the forseeable future in which I will not be eating pancakes. I have made a dozen so far, and barely made a dent in the total batter. It's a good thing pancakes are loaded with nostalgic value for me, 'cause I'm going to be dining on nostalgia for quite some time.
Cooking Rule of Thumb #1: If your recipe involves 8 eggs and you're cooking for one, there will be leftovers.
Later Days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)