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I've heard my brother say more than once that years ago he had intentionally sat down with my grandpa, tape recorder in hand, and interviewed him about his early years and our family roots. The tape was subsequently lost in the shuffle of multiple moves and I never heard it. Until today. Jonathan came in from an afternoon out with a strange look on his face. Guess what I found? We popped it in an old player and sat back to listen. It was eerie to hear his good-natured voice from years ago, before the stroke that changed him so dramatically and those last difficult months before he died. Thus was the Grandpa of my childhood: easy-going, always amused and a little distant, like he was resigned to being a bit bored with the goings-on around him, contentedly eyeing some distant horizon. An inventor, an artist and self-made man, he must have always been thinking, wondering, working things out. So here he was, game to the questions and telling his story so matter-of-factly. "Hello, my name is Albert Scott..." We learned that his oldest sister, the pretty Miriam Ruth, died at age 20, not of consumption but of a thyroid disease, wasting away suddenly within six months and that had plunged my great grandfather into a deep depression just as the world was entering its. Grandpa had worked beside his father in the sign-painting business for years. Their place was located literally blocks from where we were sitting listening to his voice tell about it. His older brother, my great Uncle Byron, was a boxer during the Depression, even working the carnival at one point taking on "comers". We heard how Grandpa had actually enjoyed boot camp, that it was "kinda fun" because he was "strong and light on my feet". He'd gotten his pilot's license as a young man out of casual curiousity but had better things to do than fly planes which he admitted was "kind of boring". He wanted to tell about his grandparents, his (great?) Grandpa Flint, a successful business man who had bought abandoned ships out of the SF Bay during the Gold Rush for pennies on the dollar. His great grandmother, who was a Tyler, related somehow to the tenth US President of that name. It was a relatively short tape, thirty minutes all told but full of intriguing threads leading off into the mist of forgotten stories. It made me realize how much is lost when an ancestor crosses over. We take too much for granted and don't realize how rare the familiar things around us are. When Laurie Andersen whispers in her song "When my father died it was like a whole library had burned down. World without end remember me," I understand.
Photo: President John Tyler, 1845 by Brady
Friday seemed strangely auspicious. Besides reportedly being a rare convergence of various holy days, it was also the first full day of Spring after the Vernal Equinox, a full moon and a culmination of weeks of focused work in the studio. My personal day of hanging had arrived, an unambiguous ending of some kind. It was blessedly warm and golden which soothed my jangled nerves. Rob steered me through a mild panic over what seemed like a hundred tiny loose ends conspiring to overwhelm my presence of mind but all were eventually trimmed and forgotten or nicely woven in. Packing and transporting large works and so many was a challenge but we rose to it, with strategic leaning and some gentle rope tying. Hanging the pieces went smoothly and the canvases that had filled the inside of my wee studio were absorbed into the large space with alarming ease. Actually they looked more at home in their new temporary digs. They are more outgoing than me and craved some exposure. The day was rounded out with an evening of jitterbug dancing which I abandoned sooner than I wanted just because of sheer exhaustion.
Saturday was a frantic rummage through the shops collecting shiny bits and candies for the girls' Easter baskets, something I usually do in a casual way over a period of a few weeks. Between Rob and I we assembled an attractive pastel colored mess that was well received on Sunday morning, which began too early for me. The afternoon came on slowly and opened beautifully like poppy buds in a warm room. Mom and Dad hosted lunch and had the family table set out under the wisteria. Dad made what we proclaimed to be the best mac and cheese in the universe with Spring veggies, greens and bread. The meal was exalted by a '96 bottle of Clos du Val Cabernet, Mom's lightly chocolate Pavlova crowned with cream and fruit for dessert and a family meander through the neighborhood under flowering trees. Yes, a really lovely weekend. Now some rest.
Photo: My studio this Spring.
A sweet and exhausting holiday. Every year I'm either driving the Christmas train or being dragged under its wheels. This year the relentless holiday momentum was pinching at the edges more than I like. I was lacking verve and couldn't quite mastermind the hundred projects I usually can when I'm in top form. Heaps of xmas detritus gathering on every surface in the house, betrayed the general level of disarray. I abandoned any pretense of organization early on and cut myself some slack. The basics got done. A big charmingly encrusted tree, lots of mysterious packages, poorly wrapped but wrapped nonetheless, in a growing pile under its branches. No cards sent but some photos and a few "What We Did This Year" letters (thank you, Rob). It all came together miraculously by the big evening. The house was semi-tidy and I got to the store for eggnog and whip cream. We ended up with a lovely Christmas Eve on our hands. Potato latkes with sour cream and homemade applesauce (thanks Peg and Dave). An impromptu visit from my bro, sappy secular carols ringing out from the kitchen, hot cocoa and eggnog, a small pyramid of sweeties saved for special (thanks, Karen), angelica wine and chocolate cordial. Per tradition, the girls each opened one special gift. India a pair of psychedelic furry slippers. Eden a bento box tucked into a cat-faced furoshiki sack. Then a night walk through the neighborhood to spy out lights. The girls were finally ordered to bed, we did the Santa thing and then slept until almost 7AM! Unheard of. A fun morning tearing at and disemboweling gifts, gorging on chocolate and then subjecting the girls to a high protein breakfast. We made soup and salad later on and took it three blocks over to Mom and Dad's where we sat down and ate it up. Good wine, more gifts, homemade cheesecake and champagne all rounded out with some strong coffee. Lots of laughing and exclamations of how lucky we are. A solid good time in appreciation of the best stuff there is: family, food and fun. Hope everyone had as good a day.
Photo: My loot. Among other things, a book of Leaf Poems by India, a beeswax candle from Eden and a lovely Cosmic Blaster ray gun with "Out Of This World Space Gun Sounds" from Rob (something I saw in Santa Cruz and wanted).
Operation Heart Fixed. If I wasn't so tired, I'd be dancing. Dad went into surgery at 8 a.m. and after almost five tedious hours we got the news...it went "beautifully". Mom and I got to the hospital at the crack of dawn with a promising clear sky. Soon Jon showed up and we all hung out in the ICU, holding Dad's hands and juicing him up with encouraging words. He was deeply sedated and won't remember but we had to for our own sakes. He looked better. They'd been administering diuretics to dry him out so his face and hands looked like him, not so puffy. He was ready to go. We went out while they did last minute prep and we talked with Dr. Korver, his surgeon. He sounded more positive than before. Though he was still deeply serious, the dire note in his voice was absent. We immediately felt enheartened. Soon we were alerted that Dad was about to be moved across the hall to surgery. We waited as the team came pushing Dad's bed along with every machine he was hooked up to en mass. As they approached us they stopped so we could touch his hands once more and tell him we love him. Then he was on his way and our wait began. We hung out mostly in the sunny garden on Memorial's grounds. It was invitingly serene with a quiet fountain, big trees and lots of flowers. We talked, joked, read poetry and bit our nails. Then people began to show up. Sisters, brothers, friends, family. Mom's sisters Laurie and Phyllis, brother-in- law Rod, good friends Jon and Laurie Drew and then two of Dad's brothers all the way from Auburn, Hal and Mike with Hal's wife Bonnie and Dad's step dad Darrell. That meant a lot and really drove home once more how serious all this is. I got very emotional hugging my Uncle Hal. He's so like Dad. I felt how hungry I am to see him standing again. As noon approached, we all began to migrate back to the small crowded waiting room. 12 o' clock came and went. Then 12:30. We were getting really anxious. At quarter to Mom cries "He's coming out!" and the whole big group of us gathered around the ICU door as they came slowly through. Dr. Korver's face spoke the good news before he did. It went beautifully. As well as it could. The bacterial growth was bad and the valve destoyed but he was confident they got it all. His heart is pumping strong now. We cried and cheered. A huge collective sigh. Amazingly, we were all, every one of us, able to go in to see him within 10 minutes. Briefly and all together was the best way they said. We stood around his bed, saying things in low voices and the nurse, Lynn, gave us a tutorial about every tube and what it was for, in case any of us was freaked out. Then we were kindly kicked out. The group broke up as some of us went in search of food and respite from all the stress. I'm home now, limp and happy and so grateful for loving people, competent people, compassionate people. Now we are on the road to getting him home.
In the midst of our OCF crunch we had a chance to step outside of the craziness for a small respite. It so happened that Rob's mother's youngest brother flew out here from Florida. Rob hadn't seen his Uncle Mike for over 30 years so we had to get together. He generously offered to take us out to a fine meal "someplace over the top, your choice" he said. Our choice, hmmm. We consulted with Mom and Dad since they've eaten out in the county more than we have. We picked Madrona Manor out on Westside Road in Healdsburg. I've been wanting to go out there because I knew my grandma lived there in 1943 with her mom when my mom was a new baby. My great grandpa was like the ranch foreman out there. It was a good choice. It was fancy French/Cali country and the hotel and grounds were beautiful. After a rather stiff mannered French Maitre d' seated us at a large table and addressed each girl as "mademoiselle" Eden whispered "This restaurant is so fancy it's kind of scary." Mike turned out to be a really nice guy. He had two Southern ladies with him and it was nice just to hear them talk. They were game for the minimalist gourmet cuisine scene. When a wide bowl was set before Uncle Mike with what looked like a tablespoon of fresh corn in the center, even I thought things had gone too far but the waitress quickly assuaged dismay by topping the bowl with a hot creamy soup from a small pitcher.They even rolled with the unexpected arrival of some "beet shooters" sent out by the chef. Where else but California do you get a shot glass of blood red juice topped with peach foam? We had a bottle of Pinot, appetizers, entrees, dessert (very impressive for the girls) and cafe presse decaf. Wow. I don't even want to guess how much it all came to. A small fortune. But Uncle Mike didn't blink an eye. He's had a successful career in water table consultation and is still in demand all over the US so he can enjoy the good things. I hope they liked it all as much as we did. Great folks. They even came back to our digs for a quiet visit and then au revoir. Always nice to meet new family in the world.
This one fascinates me. My great, great grandmother Annie Irmer, my Mom's Mom's Mom's Mom. It's easy to project into these old images but, my, she looks grim. Like she means business. Maybe just work worn. Who knows. She seems to have a grip on that unidentified towheaded boy. She's got those, well, they look like wide leg work pants on, her plaid shirt and sun hat. Like she's been or about to be busy out of doors. He looks uncomfortable, sort of half in half out of that frumpled white shirt. Unusual white stockings. Is it a special occasion? Is that a tie or maybe the strap of a bag. Is it the first day of school? Why was the picture taken? The two of them standing there in a leafy yard in front of the flowering yucca. Curious.
I haven't had much juice for blogging lately. Besides working daily in the studio, I've been steeping in personal history. The memorial stirred a lot of emotion as well as interest in the past. There have been boxes of old photographs in my folks house for a few weeks now and it's easy to start rummaging and ruminating when I come in from the heat. I have taken numerous "nab shots". I don't know why I call taking photos of photos by that term but I do. I guess it feels a little like stealing or cheating because it's just so quick and easy. Nab shots, whatever, are not ideal but still pretty great. When I'm sitting with dozens of poignant photos, original prints mostly with no negatives, I can't help wanting them. Some are very old and infinitely interesting. Almost all local shots. I've been gleaning tidbits from the Sonoma County Genealogy Society about some of my family history. This is the George Tyler Trowbridge clan (that's my great grandmother Alice, the pretty one sitting up on the wagon). George was a successful businessman, landowner and developer. So what's with the ratty chair? Ranch life, I suppose. There's more at my Flickr.
This morning, at a little after seven, Sylvia, mother of six daughters, grandmother and great grandmother to many more of us, passed away swiftly and peacefully at age 86. She had struggled with her heart and her bones these past months but was a lucid trooper 'til the end. She left many sad ones behind, family and friends old, new and dear. As many of the daughters as could (my aunts) gathered in her little apartment at Brighton Gardens among her curios and keepsakes, all which struck me suddenly as poignantly ephemeral and precious. I felt blessed to be among them to say goodbye. Grandma looked serene in the soft light and we all felt relieved that her pain was over at last. Still, it's hard to accept the finality of death. Her body that bore six beautiful women is now outgrown. She left its weight and became light. Her particular softness, strength and smile is no longer tangible in the physical world and that is true sadness. Worthy of grief. Only heart and memory and the faces of grandchildren now hold her. Her earthly story is ended. Secret dreams and struggles, unspoken experience, joys, pains and intimacies are lost to us. That ruthless severing is the sharpness of death but the brightness outweighs. She is free from pain. She lived a long and full life close to her family. She was loved and will be remembered by many. Lastly, I happen to believe she has gone to join up with her love, my Grandpa Albert and that's a happy thought. Reunion with the beloved is a good good thing.
A nice birthday. Gray, wet and typically Februarian. Water on pink popping quince and plum branches. Rob gave me a massage (well kneaded). I went thrifting and ended up with some gifts for the girls. Dined out on a nice Thai meal and then back to Mom and Dad’s for dessert and family fun.
Highlights included:
Dad’s amazing cheesecake. Not too sweet, ricottaesque with a meyer lemon glaze and, the ultimate, sugared violets! Painstakingly picked in the front yard, painted with egg white and sprinkled with sugar. Flavor bursts in purple.
Surprise visits from friends who braved the weather to come celebrate with me.
An impromptu talent show of dancing, drumming and guitar picking.
A digtal photomontage of Me set to music compiled by India. “ I am completely operational and all my circuits are functioning perfectly”.
Flowers, gifts and beautiful words. Books, art supplies, soap and a Bali reminiscent granulated silver ring like a round moon (from Mom).Thanks, all.
I've heard my brother say more than once that years ago he had intentionally sat down with my grandpa, tape recorder in hand, and interviewed him about his early years and our family roots. The tape was subsequently lost in the shuffle of multiple moves and I never heard it. Until today. Jonathan came in from an afternoon out with a strange look on his face. Guess what I found? We popped it in an old player and sat back to listen. It was eerie to hear his good-natured voice from years ago, before the stroke that changed him so dramatically and those last difficult months before he died. Thus was the Grandpa of my childhood: easy-going, always amused and a little distant, like he was resigned to being a bit bored with the goings-on around him, contentedly eyeing some distant horizon. An inventor, an artist and self-made man, he must have always been thinking, wondering, working things out. So here he was, game to the questions and telling his story so matter-of-factly. "Hello, my name is Albert Scott..." We learned that his oldest sister, the pretty Miriam Ruth, died at age 20, not of consumption but of a thyroid disease, wasting away suddenly within six months and that had plunged my great grandfather into a deep depression just as the world was entering its. Grandpa had worked beside his father in the sign-painting business for years. Their place was located literally blocks from where we were sitting listening to his voice tell about it. His older brother, my great Uncle Byron, was a boxer during the Depression, even working the carnival at one point taking on "comers". We heard how Grandpa had actually enjoyed boot camp, that it was "kinda fun" because he was "strong and light on my feet". He'd gotten his pilot's license as a young man out of casual curiousity but had better things to do than fly planes which he admitted was "kind of boring". He wanted to tell about his grandparents, his (great?) Grandpa Flint, a successful business man who had bought abandoned ships out of the SF Bay during the Gold Rush for pennies on the dollar. His great grandmother, who was a Tyler, related somehow to the tenth US President of that name. It was a relatively short tape, thirty minutes all told but full of intriguing threads leading off into the mist of forgotten stories. It made me realize how much is lost when an ancestor crosses over. We take too much for granted and don't realize how rare the familiar things around us are. When Laurie Andersen whispers in her song "When my father died it was like a whole library had burned down. World without end remember me," I understand.
