I'm almost 48 years old, but I haven't lost too many people. My beautiful and young friend Jon died; a great magazine writer who had greatly influenced me, and whom I worked with briefly, Lou Stathis, died; and my father died. Then there was my gramma Inga.
Inga Lund, daughter of Ole and Tomine Lund, was a second generation Norwegian-American. She was a strong, sensible woman who didn't suffer fools gladly. She married John Blashill, and they had three children: Richard, Helen, and Donald James, who became my father. They were poor. John Blashill died when my father was two years old, so Inga had to raise her three kids by herself after that.
She always called my dad "Donnie."
After my dad and his brother and sister had left home, Inga moved out to her brother Oskar's farm. Oskar sometimes worked sixteen-hour days, and Inga took care of the cooking and cleaning for him. When I was a boy, we always visited Inga and Oskar at the farm. One summer, we picked and ate fresh strawberries until I turned red.
Years later, after I'd finished college, and Oskar had died, my father and I went to visit Inga in South Dakota. She was selling the farm, which had always been profitable, and finally moving into town again. One afternoon, after she had withdrawn a couple hundred thousand dollars from one bank so she could move it to another bank, we stopped for lunch at a diner. Gramma Inga was usually a pretty sober sort, but as we sat down to eat, she grinned, patted her handbag, and said, "Go ahead, Pat--order anything you want. It's on me."
A few years after that, Inga had a stroke, and her health gradually deteriorated. In the last few years, she didn't always even recognize my father when he came to visit her. And because of this, I thought I had already said goodbye to her. But then, when she died--my gramma!--it slammed me. Even if you expect it or think you're prepared, death can surprise you.
Maybe it's the only way to understand the word "forever."
Anyway, in case you are wondering, dear reader, there is a hook to this post, and it's sad news. On Saturday, September 12, my wife's mother, Resi, died. She was two weeks shy of her 80th birthday.
She will be missed.
Showing posts with label (grand)parenthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label (grand)parenthood. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Mrs. Martin Comes to Town
My mom got to Vienna last week, and she's been wearing me out. She's been dining with crown princes, brokering Austria's economic recovery, going to all nite raves and gambling in some of the most dangerous casinos in town. I've tried reasoning with her but she just won't listen. I ask her, 'Ma, what are you rebelling against?' And she says,'Whaddya got?'
But seriously folks, I'm tore up. It's not easy keeping four women happy 24-7!
The best thing, the most important thing, is that Ma is getting to know V. And she gets the full-day view. Unlike the little old ladies on the strassenbahn who cry out,'Oh, susse Maus!' when they see V., Ma knows V. isn't pure sunshine. At the end of some of the past days, Ma has had this dazed look, and said, "She's quite a handful!" Or "It's hard work, isn't it?" Last night, Ma said, "You've got two very sweet kids. And you're very sweet parents."
As for V., she finally knows she has another Oma. At first, my youngest daughter just looked at my mother and hollered, "Wer bist du? (Who are you?)" Now V. runs around the house squeaking 'Mimi!' in the same way she would squeak 'Poppy!' or 'Adinah!' That is to say, for V. my mother has become another resource for satisfying her various needs, which include play, attention and the occasional stick of chewing gum. 'Kaugummi!'
They don't understand each other so well. My mom doesn't speak any German, and V. doesn't speak particularly recognizable English, though she understands it when I speak it to her. So this unfamiliar Texan lady speaks to her and V. burbles German back, and then the Texan lady says, 'Wha-?'
maybe this is okay. It is what it is.
My mom is 76 years old. It was so brave of her to come to this strange and foreign land by herself. She flew all the way from Pantego, Texas, to see V. with her own eyes for the first time. (I mean, she wanted to see the rest of us too.) Ma's not getting any younger. I know I don't have too much time left with her.
The other night, near bed time, we were all scurrying around in our usual chaos of goofing off, brushing teeth, diaper-changing and end-of-the-day exhaustion. Suddenly, Ma was in a corner with Adinah, teaching the girl how to sew. Deanie was fascinated. And both of them were giggling and talking quick like co-conspirators. My mom was so happy to be contributing something, to be playing a role in our little nut village.
It was something to remember.
But seriously folks, I'm tore up. It's not easy keeping four women happy 24-7!
The best thing, the most important thing, is that Ma is getting to know V. And she gets the full-day view. Unlike the little old ladies on the strassenbahn who cry out,'Oh, susse Maus!' when they see V., Ma knows V. isn't pure sunshine. At the end of some of the past days, Ma has had this dazed look, and said, "She's quite a handful!" Or "It's hard work, isn't it?" Last night, Ma said, "You've got two very sweet kids. And you're very sweet parents."
As for V., she finally knows she has another Oma. At first, my youngest daughter just looked at my mother and hollered, "Wer bist du? (Who are you?)" Now V. runs around the house squeaking 'Mimi!' in the same way she would squeak 'Poppy!' or 'Adinah!' That is to say, for V. my mother has become another resource for satisfying her various needs, which include play, attention and the occasional stick of chewing gum. 'Kaugummi!'
They don't understand each other so well. My mom doesn't speak any German, and V. doesn't speak particularly recognizable English, though she understands it when I speak it to her. So this unfamiliar Texan lady speaks to her and V. burbles German back, and then the Texan lady says, 'Wha-?'
maybe this is okay. It is what it is.
My mom is 76 years old. It was so brave of her to come to this strange and foreign land by herself. She flew all the way from Pantego, Texas, to see V. with her own eyes for the first time. (I mean, she wanted to see the rest of us too.) Ma's not getting any younger. I know I don't have too much time left with her.
The other night, near bed time, we were all scurrying around in our usual chaos of goofing off, brushing teeth, diaper-changing and end-of-the-day exhaustion. Suddenly, Ma was in a corner with Adinah, teaching the girl how to sew. Deanie was fascinated. And both of them were giggling and talking quick like co-conspirators. My mom was so happy to be contributing something, to be playing a role in our little nut village.
It was something to remember.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
whatever
Three things are coalescing in my crummy, sideways mind:
1) An important news item about Jennifer Love Hewitt!! I've always had a keen interest in Ms. Hewitt's theatrical career. She has a nice rack. Anyway, apparently, she looks forward to one day showing pin-up photos of herself to her grandchildren. As she puts it, then she can say "'See, I was cute.'"
2) Puberty is very difficult for some parents. I'm told it's also painful for teenagers themselves, but, really, who cares? A couple we know are having a bad time of it. But their child isn't taking drugs or having sex or bullying people online. No. The thing that's really troubling them is that no matter what they do, their kid keeps telling them, "You're embarrassing."
3) After six years of my own painful research, I'm certain that parenthood does in fact reduce one to a crummy, slovenly, untucked and uncool shadow of one's former self. The other night, Anette and I were standing outside of our cabin on the night train home from an Easter weekend with the grandparents. We were exhausted, poorly dressed and bitchy. We were waiting for our two darling daughters to fall asleep, so that we could enter the cabin, rummage around in the dark for our pajamas and toothbrushes, and then do the same. We must have looked profoundly square, and more than a little miserable.
In the cabin next to ours, twenty-one year old tough girls were hoisting beers and talking trash about tough boys. Fifteen feet down the hallway, a couple of thirty-year-old paragliders were slowly circling a 27-year-old junior executive babe--all 3 were slim, trim and dressed in black. Even the train steward was young and moussed up.
Most of these people didn't pay us any attention. But if they had, they might have thought I was a pretty sad excuse for an amateur adult. As I lay in my bunk a bit later, I felt a bit like a laughingstock. And then of course I fell asleep, because I was tired and I'm old.
Why is it so important to us to somehow convey to the youth, and especially our own spawn, that we once had a clue? That we somehow 'get' them because we were once under forty, too?
Some of this is completely understandable and no big deal to me. Even if Jennifer Love Hewitt was my grandmother, seeing pin-up fotos of her would be revolting. What kid would wanna see 'Nanna's naked popo?
And I'm certain that Adinah and V. will think I'm embarrassing when they're teenagers. They probably think that now. This is a kid's job. Why would anyone expect anything different from their kid? Parents and their children aren't pals or co-conspirators--they're apples and oranges. Two completely different kinds of ships in the night. I think it's much creepier when a kid listens to the same kind of music that their parents do, instead of listening to Katy Perry like all the other young idiots.
But there on the train, I got caught up in thinking, 'These kids don't really know me. I'm not always tired and crabby and middle-aged. Look, I used to hang out with actual rock stars, man!'
It was really stupid.
Oh well.
1) An important news item about Jennifer Love Hewitt!! I've always had a keen interest in Ms. Hewitt's theatrical career. She has a nice rack. Anyway, apparently, she looks forward to one day showing pin-up photos of herself to her grandchildren. As she puts it, then she can say "'See, I was cute.'"
2) Puberty is very difficult for some parents. I'm told it's also painful for teenagers themselves, but, really, who cares? A couple we know are having a bad time of it. But their child isn't taking drugs or having sex or bullying people online. No. The thing that's really troubling them is that no matter what they do, their kid keeps telling them, "You're embarrassing."
3) After six years of my own painful research, I'm certain that parenthood does in fact reduce one to a crummy, slovenly, untucked and uncool shadow of one's former self. The other night, Anette and I were standing outside of our cabin on the night train home from an Easter weekend with the grandparents. We were exhausted, poorly dressed and bitchy. We were waiting for our two darling daughters to fall asleep, so that we could enter the cabin, rummage around in the dark for our pajamas and toothbrushes, and then do the same. We must have looked profoundly square, and more than a little miserable.
In the cabin next to ours, twenty-one year old tough girls were hoisting beers and talking trash about tough boys. Fifteen feet down the hallway, a couple of thirty-year-old paragliders were slowly circling a 27-year-old junior executive babe--all 3 were slim, trim and dressed in black. Even the train steward was young and moussed up.
Most of these people didn't pay us any attention. But if they had, they might have thought I was a pretty sad excuse for an amateur adult. As I lay in my bunk a bit later, I felt a bit like a laughingstock. And then of course I fell asleep, because I was tired and I'm old.
Why is it so important to us to somehow convey to the youth, and especially our own spawn, that we once had a clue? That we somehow 'get' them because we were once under forty, too?
Some of this is completely understandable and no big deal to me. Even if Jennifer Love Hewitt was my grandmother, seeing pin-up fotos of her would be revolting. What kid would wanna see 'Nanna's naked popo?
And I'm certain that Adinah and V. will think I'm embarrassing when they're teenagers. They probably think that now. This is a kid's job. Why would anyone expect anything different from their kid? Parents and their children aren't pals or co-conspirators--they're apples and oranges. Two completely different kinds of ships in the night. I think it's much creepier when a kid listens to the same kind of music that their parents do, instead of listening to Katy Perry like all the other young idiots.
But there on the train, I got caught up in thinking, 'These kids don't really know me. I'm not always tired and crabby and middle-aged. Look, I used to hang out with actual rock stars, man!'
It was really stupid.
Oh well.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Ho ho ho.
Hey folks, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
I thought about this first sentence carefully, by the way. Coulda started with something finely wrought, or deadpan, or boring/reflective. But sometimes a fellow's just got to say the main thing and nothing else. So there.
We are back in the groove in Vienna after a week in the bizarre wilds of Vorarlberg and a nice New Year's Eve dinner party. Anette has been cooking with the giant soup pot that I gave her, the girls have been wearing the matching cowgirl outfits their Mimi sent them from Texas, and I'm rocking the thin silver chain that my wife gave me. We gave Adinah a new scooter and a watch, and V. a set of giant Legos and a Barbapapa plate and cup. I also gave Anette a book of pictures of our family, and my sister in law gave me Tony Judt's gargantuan book Postwar, about Europe after World War Two. We also got a very fancy new aluminum skillet. All in all, a pretty good haul.
For Christmas, we always go to Anette's hometown, Hard. No, really, that's the name of the place where my sweetheart was born. And it's a strange little dorf. It has always been a farm village, but in recent years, Vorarlberg has become one of the richest provinces of this rich country, and lots of the local tycoons apparently want to live in sleek gray minimalist boxes. Plus, both Wolford and Wolff, two different fancy panties companies are based there. So Hard still smells like wet cow shit, and houses just off the Hauptstrasse (Main Street) have chicken coops in the back yard, but there's also all these Architectural Digest showplaces and apartment houses that look like inverted and/or poorly stacked packing crates. In between various festivities, I had a lot of fun wandering around and taking pictures of the barns and lingerie outlets.
As for the festivities themselves, well, Anette's family really likes to sit together, sing Christmas songs and make bread. Anette's dad is about four feet tall and a complete clown, so Adinah and V. had a blast playing with him. It was a pretty cozy time, but the nicest thing is seeing our daughters with their grandparents. Adinah only met my dad once, and V. has yet to meet my ma, but after visits to Hard, I know they're always gonna remember their Oma and Opa.
I thought about this first sentence carefully, by the way. Coulda started with something finely wrought, or deadpan, or boring/reflective. But sometimes a fellow's just got to say the main thing and nothing else. So there.
We are back in the groove in Vienna after a week in the bizarre wilds of Vorarlberg and a nice New Year's Eve dinner party. Anette has been cooking with the giant soup pot that I gave her, the girls have been wearing the matching cowgirl outfits their Mimi sent them from Texas, and I'm rocking the thin silver chain that my wife gave me. We gave Adinah a new scooter and a watch, and V. a set of giant Legos and a Barbapapa plate and cup. I also gave Anette a book of pictures of our family, and my sister in law gave me Tony Judt's gargantuan book Postwar, about Europe after World War Two. We also got a very fancy new aluminum skillet. All in all, a pretty good haul.
For Christmas, we always go to Anette's hometown, Hard. No, really, that's the name of the place where my sweetheart was born. And it's a strange little dorf. It has always been a farm village, but in recent years, Vorarlberg has become one of the richest provinces of this rich country, and lots of the local tycoons apparently want to live in sleek gray minimalist boxes. Plus, both Wolford and Wolff, two different fancy panties companies are based there. So Hard still smells like wet cow shit, and houses just off the Hauptstrasse (Main Street) have chicken coops in the back yard, but there's also all these Architectural Digest showplaces and apartment houses that look like inverted and/or poorly stacked packing crates. In between various festivities, I had a lot of fun wandering around and taking pictures of the barns and lingerie outlets.
As for the festivities themselves, well, Anette's family really likes to sit together, sing Christmas songs and make bread. Anette's dad is about four feet tall and a complete clown, so Adinah and V. had a blast playing with him. It was a pretty cozy time, but the nicest thing is seeing our daughters with their grandparents. Adinah only met my dad once, and V. has yet to meet my ma, but after visits to Hard, I know they're always gonna remember their Oma and Opa.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Saturday, March 22, 2008
A week with the In-laws
Anette has gone to the USA for ten days to work on a film project, but I haven't been home alone with the kids. Oma and Opa were here to help.
Previously, when my wife went away for work or play, I dreaded the extra papa duty a little, but I also liked being the Boss around here finally. My schedule, my rules, my food, my black metal on the stereo. But this week I wasn't in charge at all. Oma did her best to dominate the kitchen area as soon as she arrived, and Opa's ridiculous shenanigans with the kids really overwhelmed my efforts to be the Dad Who Plays the Most. It's amazing what sort of child entertainment value that eighty-year-old kid can squeeze out of a blank piece of paper and a pair of scissors.
The kids had a great time. Adinah sat at the kitchen table drawing with Opa a lot, and Oma occasionally chased V. around the house, a game which makes our second daughter chuckle so hard she hiccups. One night I was folding clothes in another room, and I started to hear all this maniacal laughter from the next room. When I walked around the corner, all four of them were shuffling around a pile of pennies on the table, and cackling as if they had just invented the most naughty form of amusement known to man.
Oma, a.k.a Teresa, and Opa, also known as Josef, met each other and got married more than fifty years ago: he had fought for the Germans on the front lines, then became a POW, while she stayed home and tried to survive in a tiny farm town in Austria. The first time they saw white bread, they were astounded. A few days ago, I was making us some lunch, and I asked Opa if he would like some shrimp. He said he'd never eaten one.
So it's sort of amazing for me to watch them cavorting around our big city apartment sixty years later with their Ethiopian and half-Nigerian grandaughters. Could they have ever imagined their twilight years would look like this?
Previously, when my wife went away for work or play, I dreaded the extra papa duty a little, but I also liked being the Boss around here finally. My schedule, my rules, my food, my black metal on the stereo. But this week I wasn't in charge at all. Oma did her best to dominate the kitchen area as soon as she arrived, and Opa's ridiculous shenanigans with the kids really overwhelmed my efforts to be the Dad Who Plays the Most. It's amazing what sort of child entertainment value that eighty-year-old kid can squeeze out of a blank piece of paper and a pair of scissors.
The kids had a great time. Adinah sat at the kitchen table drawing with Opa a lot, and Oma occasionally chased V. around the house, a game which makes our second daughter chuckle so hard she hiccups. One night I was folding clothes in another room, and I started to hear all this maniacal laughter from the next room. When I walked around the corner, all four of them were shuffling around a pile of pennies on the table, and cackling as if they had just invented the most naughty form of amusement known to man.
Oma, a.k.a Teresa, and Opa, also known as Josef, met each other and got married more than fifty years ago: he had fought for the Germans on the front lines, then became a POW, while she stayed home and tried to survive in a tiny farm town in Austria. The first time they saw white bread, they were astounded. A few days ago, I was making us some lunch, and I asked Opa if he would like some shrimp. He said he'd never eaten one.
So it's sort of amazing for me to watch them cavorting around our big city apartment sixty years later with their Ethiopian and half-Nigerian grandaughters. Could they have ever imagined their twilight years would look like this?
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