Category Archives: Family

Mom

Mom became a mother over 70 years ago on this day. She was 22 years old, living more than 2000 miles from her family in Ohio. There was family support from Dad’s side. One of his aunts came to stay with them for a couple of weeks after I was born to help out. Yes, it’s my birthday! Mom gave me a birthday card yesterday and wrote ‘To my first-born son’ on it. It’s an appellation I carry with pride.

Mom had had some ideas of a career, but she quit college to marry my father and follow him wherever he went. I don’t think it was ever an issue that she might be the one to lead. It was the tenor of the times. The real women’s movement didn’t get rolling for another 15 years.

Mom’s leadership has been more subtle. She did her duty and took care of 6 children while my father went off to work every day. But when I look at my values and where they came from, I find that many things I do now align closely with what I now see is her approach to life. Not to minimize Dad. But I’ve done several appreciations of him in this blog (here, here, and here) and not one of Mom.

So, I want to appreciate Mom. She pays attention to her surroundings and takes action based on what she sees. She doesn’t wait for a crisis to develop, she heads it off. It’s a trait that I’ve noticed in myself that has stood me in particularly good stead in a professional environment and it came from her.

I don’t remember asking her, but I think it’s likely that she learned to sew as a young child. She was a child of the Depression. Her family wasn’t poor, but they weren’t rich by any stretch. I’m sure she wore lots of hand-me-downs from her older sister. She didn’t have her own bedroom until she was in high school.

As I was growing up, I took for granted that she made all kinds of things from cloth: dresses, shirts, aprons, napkins, blankets, you name it! It wasn’t high style, but it was functional. And I don’t believe any of us were embarrassed to wear the clothes she made. I remember going to the store and looking through Simplicity patterns with her. That was her wheelhouse.

I think it was some time in the ’70s that she got a high end sewing machine that could do lots of fancy stitches and the like. Before that, it was just her trusty SInger.

She hasn’t done much sewing in the last decade or so. Nevertheless, her sewing room is still fully outfitted and ready to go. I’m sure it gets used regularly, but only for small projects and repairs now. I sneaked in there yesterday and took this picture:

The wall storage, work surfaces and shelves were all built by Dad to her specifications.

When Sepi and I meet people and we talk about our families, we are always proud to talk about Mom. How  she’s in her 90s and in good health, and how independent she is. Come to think of it, we don’t say much about her sewing. Maybe it’s too subtle.

Thanks, Mom, for all the subtlety. You’ve been a quiet leader my whole life and I appreciate it!

Dad the list maker

I only have one photo to support my thesis, but I’m going ahead anyway. Here’s the photo:

This is a view of the interior of the furnace closet. All the notations are in Dad’s writing documenting the dates on which he had changed the furnace filter.

He had installed a water softener not long after we moved to the Santa Clara house. The water softener uses salt pellets which periodically have to be added to a barrel in the garage. That system has been replaced at least once in the 60+ years and the one now in use is 15 or 20 years old. The lid of the salt barrel is filled with similar notations of when he had added salt pellets. It’s even more dramatic looking than the furnace closet.

In Mom’s car at this very moment, I am sure – without looking, I’m at home as I write this – there is a little book with notations showing every gasoline purchase since the car was new. She has faithfully carried on this tradition of Dad’s for years now. I’m not as sure that she is keeping the service records there as Dad did.

For many years, I carried on this tradition in my own vehicles as well. I finally realized that there was no benefit to me so I stopped. I can look at credit card records if I have to although I can’t use them to calculate mileage, as he did. I am guilty of occasionally putting dates on things that I use: ibuprofen, laundry detergent, potato chips, toothpaste, for example, so that I can gauge how long they actually last. Perhaps that was Dad’s motivation. I prefer to think that he was a scientist to the bone and always wanted to work from a position of factual knowledge.

To be fair, I never saw dates written on any perishables at our house growing up. Perhaps, with 6 kids, things got used up so fast it didn’t matter.

some Zach thoughts

It’s not every day, or even every week. Sometimes a month may go by without thinking of Zach. But when it comes, it comes hard.

The three friends, laughing, then the yells of warning, then the sudden screen of skidding tires, the thump, followed by more yelling. ‘You’re not going to pin this on me, man!’ The sirens and the lights. And the realization that their friend was gone.

This reimagining comes without warning, at odd times. Most often in the wee hours but sometimes, like today, in the bright afternoon.

All I can do is grieve some more. And sometimes write about it.

There are other times, when I think of Zach and the insights he might have. Some profound and some just funny. That’s when ‘I miss you’ really has meaning.

me and the Church

‘Church’ is capitalized because I’m talking about the Catholic Church. It was without question the dominant social institution of my youth.

Mom and Dad were both devout Catholics. They both went to Catholic schools for their entire education. When I and my siblings went to school, it was to the local Catholic school at St Joseph’s in Cupertino. That was where we went to mass every Sunday.

At a certain age, I don’t remember exactly when maybe aged 10 or 11, I resisted going on Sunday. I remember my father telling me I should be able to dedicate an hour a week to god. I had no philosophic reason to not go. I just didn’t wanna. I don’t remember that I was ever excused.

In the early 1960s, the Church held a big conference called Vatican II. When it was over, many of the rules around going to church that I had grown up with were liberalized. Priests were allowed to say Mass in the local language. No longer did we have to fast before taking communion.

Mom and Dad bought into the liberalization completely. We started going to Mass in different places, not necessarily consecrated churches. One time we celebrated Mass at a park. Just out on the lawn with about 20 people and a priest. I found it interesting to experience the Liturgy stripped down to its essentials. Along with everything else going on in the world, it led me to a questioning of the established institution of the Church.

Around the same time, there was a lot of interest in music with guitars. We were avid watchers of the Hootenanny TV show which featured just about everyone playing guitars and singing. Then, of course, there were The Beatles.

So, somewhere in that time frame, the idea of music for a Mass using guitars was born. At St. Joseph’s, there was established a ‘guitar Mass’ led by a charismatic man who played guitar and sang.

As I recall, the songs were not liturgical, per se. ‘Blowing in the Wind’ and ‘Today’ were favorites.

My interest in the guitar was not due to the guitar Mass, or anyone on Hootenanny. It was The Beatles. Nevertheless, the guitar Mass was an acceptable outlet for my rudimentary playing at age 15. Mom and Dad had an acoustic guitar for some reason that I commandeered. I think Dad thought he was going to learn to play at one point but he never did. Come to think of it, I don’t know why we had that guitar. It was just there and I started playing it. I didn’t have to lobby for a guitar to play. Fate!

So, now I’m in high school. And by the way, I had run up against the limitations of the Catholic education in 6th grade and moved into the much more academically demanding local public schools. We were still very active in the church, though. The annual fall festival run by the Parish had always been fun and there was a youth group for high schoolers run by a Brother.

(Even now I’m not sure of the distinction between a Brother and a lay person. Brother Gary was not a priest but he had made some kind of commitment to the Brotherly order. For us, he was a fun guy who could be serious too. I learned a lot from him.)

Any American male in the 1967 -1971 time frame – my high school years – thought a lot about the draft. The Vietnam war was raging and quite aside from the prospect of coming home in a body bag, I felt strongly that there were better things to do with my life than to become a soldier and go to Vietnam. I enjoyed being in the Parish youth group but I had a lot of different ideas about faith and spirituality. I recognized the institution of the Church as just another power structure. I was planning on going to college, which included a deferment, but I was thinking longer term. I was laying the groundwork for a Conscientious Objector status with the draft board by staying active in this recognized religious organization.

In the end it didn’t matter because the draft was reconfigured to a lottery. I got a high enough number so the likelihood of my being drafted was very small.

There was never any particular moment when I ‘decided’ I wasn’t going to go to church any more. I graduated high school and went away to college. No one was bugging me to go to church every Sunday so I didn’t. I was playing guitar in a rock band! That was my new religion.

Over the years, I’ve been to Mass a few times. It all seems silly to me but I did it because I was with Mom and Dad and I respected their needs.

I have one more story. When I was in 2nd or 3rd grade, we were studying the Sacraments. One of the Sacraments is the Confession. Confession involved going down to the Church on a Saturday, waiting in the pews for a turn in the confessional, then entering the confessional and facing the priest through a screen. You could hear but not see the priest. It was all pretty intimidating plus it took a big bite out of a perfectly good Saturday afternoon. There was a formula of what to say, of course, followed by a recitation of whatever sins you had committed in the past week. You had to say something so there was some invention every Saturday.

So, one day my nun teacher handed out these little cards to the class. On them was printed something called the ‘Act of Contrition’. My teacher explained that it was for times when you couldn’t get to confession. You could just say the prayer and god would hear you and take care of it. Balance the books, as it were.

Well, even at my young age, I saw it immediately. Why go through the operator when you could direct dial? It was the beginning of the end of me and the Church.

Cognitive test

I don’t remember where I heard the story. I think it was about the time that I had to witness Dad go through a cognitive test. I think it was about two years before he died. Mom had been saying for a while that he was ‘losing it.’ and all of us kids didn’t believe it.

Watching the test made me a believer but it was heartbreaking. In hindsight, that could be considered his day of death for me. He was clearly no longer the man he was.

Anyway, I think the story is kind of funny. It couldn’t have been Dad, though. It’s not his style. He took the test seriously and tried his hardest to answer the questions correctly. Interestingly from this remove, I don’t remember any discussions with him about his condition. Of course there was nothing to be done but work around it.

So, the story goes that a man was being given a cognitive test. The tester asked questions like how how much time is there between 1:45 and 3:30 and the responder was clearly having trouble. Then the tester asked, ‘Who is the President?’ and the man responded quickly:

‘That asshole!’

hairstyle

I got a haircut from Sepi’s niece last August. I don’t remember that it was particularly short but now it’s 3 months later and I don’t feel the need for a new haircut. Usually, two months is about right.

For some reason, I’ve started combing my hair straight back rather than to the side as I’ve been doing it since I was a child. In my mind, it’s the look of my Uncle Pat. Here’s a picture of him:

This picture was taken in 1979. Pat was in his 50s then. Now I’m 70 plus and every time I comb my hair back I think of Pat.

Various hair people in recent years have encouraged me to use ‘product’ to hold my hair in a certain place. I’ve tried it but it doesn’t feel right. I’m a natural guy! I don’t know if Pat was using such stuff. Knowing him, I’m guessing not. Anyway, my hair starts falling into my face after it dries out.

Here’s my look from before the last haircut:

The good looking gentleman in the white jacket is Sasha. You can read about this photo here.

 

Dad’s house

When I was a teenager, I was highly annoyed (to say the least) at the arc of my father’s life. He went to college, found a girl, graduated, got a job, got married, had kids, bought a house and . . . lived happily ever after. He was completely devoted to my Mom. Any arguments they may have had were hidden from us kids. He retired from a job he held for over 40 years. Finally, he died in the same house he had bought over 60 years earlier.

Perhaps I’ll address those feelings here someday. Today I want to talk about his house that he bought in 1958, that he raised 6 kids in and that my mother still lives in.

Because she still lives there, I have the privilege of going back to this house of my early years and viewing it with a different perspective. It’s different in many ways. There was the major addition in 1965, which I lived through. There was the reconfiguration of what was originally a ‘den’ and later my bedroom into a ‘sun room’ that is now the location for all large family dinners. Outside, it’s even more different. I think there is one tree left that was extant when I was a youngster.

So, what am I getting at? I was out in the back yard yesterday and went into the little shed on the back corner of the house. Dad built that shed. We were looking at the dripper system that is all over the back. Dad laid that out and it is still functioning reasonably well. On the edge of the deck opposite where most of the plants are is a hose bib. Dad plumbed it in copper pipe. The concrete walk on the side of the house was poured by Dad. I remember him reading about how to do exposed aggregate and trying it on that walk. It didn’t work out so well but the walk is still there and hasn’t fallen apart.

In the garage, there are screws, nails, hooks, shelf brackets, and other useful hardware, all sorted into boxes and neatly labeled. His toolbox is filled with inexpensive tools that were good enough for him. I made a living using tools, so I look at these sometimes and sigh if I have to use one. I can get the job done with them, though.

The cabinets and shelves in the garage were all built by him, as were many of the cabinets and shelves in the bedrooms and ‘family room’ (now known as the office). The construction isn’t fancy, but it has held up. We got a contractor for the major addition I referred to, but Dad drew up the architectural drawings.

Those who are gone live on in our memories. My memories of Dad are many, but being at his house and seeing his work is a different kind of memory. If I wanted to, I could show any of those things to another person and say, ‘My Dad did that!’ and it would tell them the kind of person Dad was, even if they had never met him.

That’s pretty cool!

photo of Zach

We got a new printer which in today’s world includes scanning and copying capabilities. I had a stack of photos so I went through them to test the scanning process.

There really isn’t anything special about this photo. I’m not sure of the year or the place. The prints were marked with a December 2000 date so it had to be before that. Most likely in the summer in the foothills.

Earlier that year we had all gone to England for two weeks. It turned out to be a great trip. Zach was 11 and spent much of the time holding my hand as we walked around London. I remember thinking how precious that was and how unselfconcious he was doing it. I miss you son.

Jet lag

I’m beginning to think that this getting older thing is real. Last year when the time changed, it took me several days to re-adjust. At the time, I put it down to work stresses.

We came back from the Eastern time zone last Wednesday. Today is Saturday, ten days later. This morning is the first time I’ve felt like I’ve gotten decent sleep that is aligned with the sun.

It’s weird; both times the symptoms weren’t overt. I wasn’t getting up exactly three (or one) hours earlier, etc. It was more like being generally unsettled. This time, it was complicated by the fact that I didn’t have to go to work every day. Laying in bed in the morning – or going to bed early – was an option that I took advantage of.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s why it took longer. Hmmmm . . . .

So, I am retired now. I did go into Davies Hall one time to help with some transition issues but mostly my schedule is completely open. We had some doctor appointments; we got the car serviced, but this is the new normal.

The trip was great. We went to Toronto and Montreal and visited Sepi’s sister’s family. Jet lag issues on the front end were relatively minor. I attributed our fatigue more to the fact that we came out on a red-eye. But, we also were thrown into doing things! I’ll have to remember that.

I’ll do a write up in a separate post. I have the time now!

Diaries and legacies

I’ve kept journals – diaries if you will – for many years. I remember writing some diary-type things even in high school. I don’t know if I digitized that writing I could go look but if I did that I wouldn’t write this post. I know I purged a lot of paper from that time when I moved in with Sepi.

When I was about to become a father, I started writing a journal more seriously. I suppose I thought it would be something that my children could go back to and find interesting. In fact, all of my kids did read the accounts of the day of their birth. We had some interesting discussions of that back in the day.

Originally, there was a journal for each child but it eventually devolved into general journals of my life. I’ve gone back and looked at some of them over the years. It can be troublesome emotionally but I am glad I have the option to revisit those times if I want to.

Zach, as readers of this blog know, kept a diary regularly during his time in Baton Rouge. I have read some of it with the range of emotions one might expect. A couple of entries I have shared here. I have tried to be sensitive to the privacy of the people mentioned so that is a significant limiting factor.

I know Mom has journals. The ones I’ve seen are travel journals but I suspect there may be other more personal diaries. The travel journals take up about 6 feet of shelf space. When will I – or anyone else – read those? I haven’t asked Mom about what purpose she felt in writing originally. I think it will be the same as me: it’s just something I do. If it has value to later generations, then that’s a plus.

I used to do a lot of photography with an SLR camera. Now that I carry a different camera with me all the time – we generally call it a ‘phone’ – I take pictures of this or that but don’t spend any time thinking about the longer term. Why did I take pictures before? Why did I haul that big camera with me everywhere? I took pictures of people gathering to memorialize the event but I also took ‘art’ pictures. Why? Now that everything is digital I’ve saved everything carefully in my hard drive. Mom has another 6 feet of shelf space dedicated to photo albums. With few exceptions, they are untouched. When she passes and her house is to be sold, who will take them? Who will take the journals? Do they have value to her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren? People outside the family?

Getting back to journals, I hope that my children and grandchildren read my writing and feel that they can know me in a new way.

When Zach was killed, we were faced with the issue of what to do with his things. More importantly, our relationships with Zach were no longer dynamic. Memory became the only relationships we had. I see his journals and this blog as a way to keep a person alive. Of course, it’s not the same but it’s all we have.

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