@ sixes & sevens

One storytelling ends, another begins

This weekend Dad handed me a copy of The Brief, Mostly True, Story of the Day Family, which he researched, compiled, wrote, scanned, laid out, printed, and most likely would have spiral bound himself if he had the time and energy.

It is most definitely a labor of love: the love for his family.

It is the culmination of a longstanding desire to capture the stories, true and apocryphal, of his colorful forebears; and to blend these with his own story. He wanted to pass them on to his own children before another generation's stories (and those of earlier generations handed down to him) were lost untold. It's also the conclusion of the ongoing struggle with his computer to do what he intended it to do.

I tore into this samizdat gem as soon as I got on the bus to go back uptown. And tore in I did: I managed to disbind the last two thirds while bending the book back cover to cover. Lucky thing I've learned these invaluable library skills that I can put it back together again.

Dad has never shied away from telling stories. I can't imagine sitting at a dinner table with him without hearing a fascinating story from his life. And if I've heard it before (and there's a pretty good chance of that), I can enjoy it anew in the retelling and in the reaction of his latest audience.

That's why I was so surprised, reading through it last night, to discover stories altogether new to me. And stories that weren't about the interesting people he has met over the years, but quiet, reflective stories in which he is the central character.

I came away with an even deeper appreciation of Dad, of his distinctive and clever writing style, and of his motivation for putting the book together. I haven't really spoken much with him about his motivation, nor how he feels now that it's done. I came away nevertheless with the conviction that I should do just as he has: commit my memories to print.

Clearly my efforts won't be for the benefit of my children. Nor for anything particularly remarkable about my life to this point. It may be truly a memoir for memoir's sake. For myself it is clear that across fifty years quite a bit can change, change in ways unrecognizable to those familiar with only the now. I'd like to flatter myself that what I might say would be, at the least, of anecdotal or corroborative value to understanding where my life intersects with the rest of the world.

So to that end and with this newfound conviction, I will try in this space to capture and exhibit  some reminiscences -- in no particular order and of no particular weightiness, but I hope diverting nonetheless.

I will tag them all Personal history if you want to follow along.

Six Degrees

Not that six degrees; the Fahrenheit kind. It was the temperature in Chicagoland when I woke up this morning.

On Monday night I learned that my mother-in-law, long bedridden and hospital bound in suburban Chicago from a stroke the year before, had died. Kiki and I had talked only a few days earlier about what we would do if the inevitable should happen. I offered to join her on the trip back home.

It's amazing how quickly you spring to action once decisions need to be made -- canceling work and social commitments, arranging for pet sitting, booking airline flights and ground transportation. Kiki and I coordinated much of it by cell phone, booking our JetBlue flights simultaneously online from New York and Boston.

It turned out to make the most sense for us to rendezvous at JFK and fly the Chicago leg together -- for moral support, among other things. And apart from the two-hour delay in taking off from New York, it went very smoothly. When we peered out the windows at O'Hare the wind was whipping the snow horizontally across the tarmac -- a wintry sandstorm, as it were. The broken baggage carousel at O'Hare forced the passengers to adopt a fireman's brigade to move the bags down the line; eventually it ground to life. When we left there was only one guy left waiting for his bags. He began his day in Birmingham, Alabama, and due to cancellations and missed flights had ended up flying to Memphis, Detroit, JFK, and finally Chicago. It looked as if his bags hadn't made the trip.

So we'll have a 'free' day today before the pomp and ritual of dying kick in Thursday.

Lessons learned

As long as I can remember, I have frequently answered the challenge of doing something new by making light of it. It's been a great way to avoid new experiences over which I might not have some sort of control. It doesn't have to make sense, and it doesn't.

Luckily there have been strong and determined people who won't let me slide: they'll get me to experience something they know is rewarding in order to share it with them. This goes for foreign travel or driving a car -- both examples for which I can thank Kiki.

One of the challenges of longest standing has been riding on a roller coaster. I think as long as I was small and hysterical about it, nobody would bother to make me go through with it -- why bother? Once I had safely gotten through childhood, the challenge seldom arose again.

Noria-de-Beirut
Originally uploaded by Paula y Vicente

Oddly, the same once applied to Ferris wheels, and would have stayed in the running if Kiki hadn't shamed me into riding one with her. (It helps that she's not afraid of them.) Mind you, it would have been a little less scary if it hadn't been on the Corniche in Beirut, Lebanon.

As summer threatened to turn into fall, and with it the specter of Astroland's closing indefinitely while its new owner figured out how to make the most of the real estate, it dawned on me that I might miss the chance to sample the Cyclone, a classic 'woodie' roller coaster that's one of the most echt New York experiences.

So I arbitrarily picked a weekday evening after work to trek out to Coney Island. (I'd never experienced Coney Island at night either, not out of fear but a lack of opportunity. ) It was probably best that I went by myself: It was easier to carry through with it when there was nobody to whimper to, nobody to let me off the hook one more time.

It was a gorgeous day, and the sun was headed toward the horizon when I strode up to the ticket booth to buy my all-you-can-ride admission. I dismissed the idea of trying out some other, less exciting ride and went straight to the Cyclone. There wasn't a line, and I was waved right through to the awaiting cars. This was all just too easy.

I figured I really didn't want to be in the very front: I may be brave at long last, but no need to push it. I was secured into my seat and off we went.

Wow! Why had I waited so long to have so much fun? Okay, the first time we dropped, and I felt as if the cars were leaving the tracks, I was grabbing the brace so emphatically that I could feel a pain shoot through my shoulder. I eased up a little, we went into a jarring right-hand turn, and from then on it was just a really big blast. I was more worried about being thrown from side to side. But anyone who's ridden the subway has had plenty of similar experiences, what's the big deal? I was less sanguine about those drops, and the unavoidable feeling that this was going to be the ride when all the bolts would shake out and I'd be sent hurtling into the crowds.

I didn't have to think twice before making the circuit to the front again and riding a second time. It was even better the second time, since I felt I could let go and actually scream a little. (Most of the sounds during my first ride went "whoa-oa-oa!") Wow!

Having accomplished what I set out to do, I could relax and take in the rest of the Boardwalk: play a little skee ball, ride the Wonder Wheel (I had steadfastly stayed on the ground the last time, me and my fellow husband, as the womenfolk rode), have a dinner of shrimp and onion rings, and wade through the water as an enormous orange moon rose in the east. (Unfortunately my camera battery died just as I whirled and spied the moonrise.) All in all, a magical evening, and one entirely of my own creation.

Before you ask, I'm not interested in bungee jumping any time soon.