Fragile Industries

OK, I'm back and pissed off. Seeing as how I have zero readers, this is what is called an opportunity.

How Do I Stop Tap Dancing?

A friend started me on blogging, he'd been doing it for several years and seemed so involved.  I didn't quite get it.  I love to write, but ... how naked.  Out there.  Identifiably?  But god, it looked fun.  

His tag line is/was: "And I'm tap-tap-tapping as fast as I can."  I wanted to dance.

It took me some courage to write publicly.  For a long time, only that one friend could connect the private me with the blog.  As time went on, I shared this space with more personal friends.  But still, I was a fat girl dancing in the dark, fearless.

I don't feel that way any more.  I don't care that I've got no rhythm.  I am who I am.  But there are things I want to write about that I cannot share with the current readership.  The past is a succession of lessons.  One is: I had it, I loved it, I let it go.

So I'm writing, tap-tap-tapping, elsewhere and if you want to read me, drop me a line. I still tap dance best as a solo.  That doesn't mean I don't need an audience. 

Family Stories

When I was in college, I took a history course that asked us to research a family member through oral history.  I went back to my father's father, who died long before I was born.  In so doing, I captured a lot of genealogical information about the family in general from everyone alive and old and about to die, and a whole lot of apocryphal stories.  My father's family was Sicilian Italian, immigrant and first generations.  So stories kind of flowed through these older people in a way that was mostly lost to the later generations.  What was odd, in visiting the later generations, was how wedded they were to the Italian part of their "Italian-American" heritage, but how little they cared about the stories -- many brave and inspiring -- of their parents or grandparents who struggled to make that American story happen.

One theme of the stories that I loved was how the American born children of immigrants honored the family connections and their homeland in America at the same time by bringing in the 1920's to the US their close relations who by fate or lack of funds had not come to the US when immigration was easier.  In modern terms, these would be the people that Arizona would pull over and handcuff.  

My grandmother's brother, Frank Benanti, was the first (and American) born son of a Sicilian couple -- his father sold sandwiches to the railroad workers in Missouri, then worked up to a pushcart in Kansas City, and then owned a large commercial establishment downtown and most of a city block to house his large family.  It was a compound before the Kennedys even thought of it, with separate houses for their children and their growing families.  Frank was the shining star of the family -- college, studied law, lawyer, and eventual judge.  His brothers all followed him to law school, as well.

But none of them drew a legal line about going back to Palermo, buying a "marriage certificate" to a cousin or sister-in-law, and returning through a few extra ports to the US, with a wife in tow.  (I guess the male "left-behinds" were on their own.)  That's the story I heard. 

I was fortunate enough to meet the stately Honorable Frank in the 1970's, at the end of his life, and I wish I had asked him about this story, but I didn't know it yet until I was in college in the 1980's, and he was gone.  Only third-hand tales remained.  He was impressive, and I did ask him if he really had known Harry S. Truman.  He had.

So I join Ancestry.com on a whim, start adding in family names, and suddenly I get a link to citizen's records at docking from a steamship record in New York, 1926 -- Frank coming back after a long tour of Italy.  There are funny little footnotes, and I wish I could look at the page references, but it looks like Frank may have returned with a non-citizen something.  The best story that matches is that he brought back Lena, who I also had the privilege of meeting, twice, in her home above the family funeral parlor in Kansas City.  Really.  The stories I could tell about Lena. 

Anyway, there is something so bone-chillingly thrilling about seeing, in black and white, the record that sorta kinda proves the truth of the apocryphal tale.  Of the key document that gave Lena a new life in a new country, where she went on to raise two solid kids who carried on the family business, the children of a loving and prosperous (it's a NICE funeral home) man.  Where I could meet her 50 years after her arrival, and she could feed me until I thought I was gonna burst.  Little bird lady, holding her elbows out like chicken wings, muttering in a mix of Italian and that weird semi-Southern Missouri accent. 

I could say something about immigration paranoia, but it should be evident.  I am proud of America and its people however they get here and hang on and make a life.  And whether the family was the Benanti's or the Gallegos or whoever is getting here by hook or by crook ... well, the hell with Arizona.  I wouldn't be here and neither would you if that kind of thinking had been the rule.

I'd rather just say this is really, deeply, cool, to be able to see the very document that let it happen.

August in Paradise

I'm still here. When I have something to say, I'll say it. Public writing just isn't necessary right now. Hey, look, I have The Cutest Kittens In The World!!!

PS: I'm fucking Matt Damon. 

Grey Gardens, The Sequel

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

[Note simple cylindrical vase, perfect for a thousand centerpieces.  I planned that damn wedding, I kept useful vase as swag.]

.

.

.

.

.

So, we are leaving My Little Town and moving to the East Bay (Alameda, Oakland, Berkeley, Kensington, and all ships at sea: watch out!).

I'll tell you about that later.  Little Edie and Big Edie finally decide to leave Gray Gardens, go to the big city, get over their own selves, and have lives.  I'll discuss how we got here later.  Maybe not.

Here's a snapshot from the process:

Today, Mom and I sorted the top shelves of the kitchen for obvious stuff that can go.  There was an entire, unused set of brand new dishes up there I didn't know about.  Not fine china, an everyday set of Thai "china."  For eight.  Soup to teacup.  VERY floral.  I hate it.  BUT, she remembered buying the set, and it was a pleasant (i.e., Jacques-revenge) memory.  So I said, Damn, you've been using the same old dishes (I don't mind them, but they are Boooooooringdull) for how long??? Remember going through your dead grandmother's things, and she had put away everything nice for later?  Let's donate the old dishes and use these.

Fuck me, she positively bloomed.  I can live with intensely floral everyday if it gives her a kick. 

 

She pointed out family pieces in the upper shelves (which I will keep without question) and she was absolutely ready to let go of various deviled egg dishes and cat shaped candle-holders. I donated a lot, even good stuff (to the sale pile) and defended to the death my 1950's Merry-Go-Round themed zombie glasses, a set of ten.  Was 12.  Over 25 years of ownership, not bad.  I am The Holy Custodian of zombie glasses.  They are just cool.

 

Then we tackled the vases.  Neither Mom nor I ever met a vase we didn't like.  This is the first Really Hard sorting.  When we get to serving bowls and baking dishes, it will be painful.  When we get to books and furniture, it's going to be bloody.

 

So, warming up with vases.  Well, we've gotten it down to one full kitchen cabinet.  I mean, you gotta save the Waterford.  Mom went on a Waterford binge right after the divorce.  I put my foot down over a couple of other heavy lead crystal numbers from lesser artisans, she should have ONLY Waterford.  She agreed. The also-rans are on the living-room table which I've designated as "Estate Sale".  The dining room table is "Donate" -- Lori the housekeeper gets first pass, unless Houston sends up a shout.  Then, it seemed, every vase had a story.  These matched two were wedding gifts from the Italian, Kansas City side, when she married Tony.  (They are so-bad-they-are-good 1951 porcelain swans with raised rosettes and lots o' gilt -- and good Catholic guilt -- so we kept them.)  Then we hit the ribbed goldfish bowl I've had since an ancient floral gift during my first marriage in the '80's.  I remembered the Oscar parties when it held an art-deco gold and black arrangement 4 feet tall.  I remembered filling it with old Christmas balls for an open house.  I remember a dead Siamese Fighting fish.  We kept it.  Mom found several vases "disturbingly sexual" (at which point I asked, "It's been a long time since you've seen any action, hasn't it?" and we collapsed, giggling.)  Those went to donations.  A silly yellow California post-WWII pottery figure of a Non-PC stereotyped Chinaman, a gift from Mom's best friend in the 40's.  Had to keep, another so-bad-it's-good.

 

And so on.  It was fun.  You know, this is wonderful.  I hated going through my father's things when he died and wished he were there to reminisce.  We get to do this NOW. 

 

There's something holy about this.

Mr. Peabody, 1995-2010

 I knew I had to do it this week, and part of the Mardi Gras weekend in San Francisco was a way to gird my loins for the hard duty.  He has not been well.  Not in real discomfort, but it was coming.  He's been confused and dozy for months.  He'd started limping with arthritis and his kidney and thyroid, even with medication, were growing worse.  For the last few weeks he's been ignoring the litter box entirely and I know where to check and clean every day.  When I got back, the living room and hall were awash.  That clinched it.  He used to have much more dignity.

He was my best buddy.  And it was a good death. 

We left the house an hour early.  Peabody is less scared in the cage when his little bed is in there, so he settled down in the car quickly while I talked to him. 

We drove to Surfer's Point, which I think is the most Ventura place in the world, and one of the prettiest.  The day was perfect, cloudless, amazing blue sky and fairly warm.  The surf was not too loud to frighten him, and a parade of people, dogs, skateboards passed him on one side, and the waves, birds and tangy breeze on the other.  He was interested and relaxed, enjoying the sun.  I kept talking to him, telling him all the wonderful memories I had of him, and that I loved him and that he was the best cat in the world.  After a while I let him out and held him in my lap.  He dozed for a while, and then I put him back in the cage and we drove to the vet's. 

I asked for 15 minutes alone with him.  He was a little nervous, but when I held him in the exam room and cried a bit, still talking to him, he put his paws on my shoulder and gave me head bump kisses.  He ALWAYS did that when I cried.  I don't cry often, but he always knew and always comforted me.  He stayed there much longer than usual and when I stopped talking and crying, he started his last conversation with me.  We exchanged about 5 or 6 "mmmppphhhhnmnmm?" noises, and then he started purring and went back to head bumps.  All better now, he seemed to say. 

When the vet came in, I put him back in his little bed and he curled up as if to sleep, even giving the vet his hind leg to inject without struggle or tension.  His purring was faint but continuous.  I held his head, kissing it and dripping snot.  Within a few seconds, the purring faded, and in less than a minute, the vet told me his heart had stopped.  His body was still warm and relaxed and perfectly composed in his little bed.  I said goodbye, noticing the top of his head where he gave me head bumps was soaking wet.

Then he let out a terrific fart. 

"That's natural," the aide said quickly.  "The body relaxes ..."  She tried to compose her face.  All of us smiled and shook our heads.  The smell was intense.

"Do you want a moment alone with him?" the vet asked.

I held my breath and kissed his wet head.  "You stinky old man," I whispered.  They heard me, and chuckled.  Then I let them take him, bed and all.

I'll get his ashes in about a month.  I'm going to take them back to SF and do something, probably sprinkle them in Golden Gate Park's rose garden.

It was a very good death.

Kitch seems to know something's wrong.  About an hour ago, she sat in the hall and yowled repeatedly, would not be comforted then raced through the house, checking behind doors and under things.  I just followed her.  She got up to the third floor bathroom and seeing that it was empty too, the last room, started walking in confused circles.  Then she let me hold her and she's still in my lap, awake and staring at me.  I didn't think she'd even notice, she and Pea were in separate worlds.  "You won," I told her.  "You're the last cat standing."

Frankly, I think that will suit her just fine.

We'll be OK.  I am having my own little wake for the rest of the day, but it was the right thing and I'll be OK.

Don't Drive Angry

Which reminds me, happy Groundhog's Day.  You'll think I'm nuttier than I am, but Groundhog's Day is one of my favorite holidays.  Very long story.  Anyway, I did one of the traditional observances tonight for GD Eve, watched the movie with Mom.  We do it every year.  And this year for the first time since it was true five years ago, Mom told me, "I've never seen that movie."

Ummmmmm....... daaaahhhlink, the irony.

Another observance I'll do tomorrow -- call Evelyn, my ex mother in law, in Seymour Texas.  It's "our" day.  Another long story.

Made a giant pot roast, another Groundhog's Day observance -- the pot roast only seeeeeeeeeems to last as long as Bill Murray's experience.  Leftovers, stew, pot pies, hash, I got at least four days worth of dinner on tap.  "I got you babe .... I got you babe..."

 

HAPPY FESTIVUS!
(GENERIC BUT HEARTFELT GREETINGS)

Freakanomics Thanksgiving, or, it could be verse, nu?

A friend emailed me about a disappointing Thanksgiving because "everyone was on good behavior."  "Was that the best we can do?" 

After I wiped the Merlot off my screen, I gave the question some thought and gave it the Malcom Gladwell treatment.

There are two primary kinds of family gatherings.  Good behavior by everyone present (which is sort of the trifecta) and bad behavior (by anyone present -- accordingly, the larger the gathering, the greater the chances of bad behavior).  Large numbers of bad actors is the worst, of course, because it can end with the carving fork in someone's chest and your face fuzzed out on an episode of "Cops". You're watching CSI draw a chalk angel instead of the kids drawing hand turkeys. 

 

But no, having everyone behaving themselves is not the best possible Thanksgiving, of a universe of behavior ratios.  It is only second best.  The best, and actually the rarest, is a single bad actor at a large gathering.  The reason that outcome is so rare is obvious.  Once the floodgates of resentment, pettiness, or even just a minor annoying habit occurs, and buttons small or large are pressed, the pressure's off.  It's all too tempting to dive into the fray and then you're back in the "Cops" episode.

 

The optimal desireability of a family gathering with a single bad behavior is grounded in the fact that it gives everyone else something to talk about until the next gathering.  Secretly, everyone wants the single bad actor outcome for maximum entertainment, but no one wants to be that guy and take it for the team.  So if no one starts it off, sometimes you get second best and everyone is on good behavior. 

 

That is my theory of family dynamics and I call it "Blinking, Tipping Freaks."  I see a best-seller.  Thanks, Malcom G.

 

 

A Thanksgiving Memory, With Gratitude To Truman

I really am grateful.  Stripping the day to its bare symbolic import, instead of turkey, today I thought on gratitude and how living well IS the best revenge. 

 

On Thanksgiving Day a few years ago, my ex woke me early, fully dressed.  He told me he wanted out of our marriage.  He crumpled on the floor sobbing and managed to choke out that he was far too upset to stay in the house (he had soldiered on manfully with full knowledge of his plan for quite some time with a calm exterior so that he could disclose the tawdry affair at a moment of maximum psychological impact) and was leaving, couldn't say where or for how long. 

 

We were supposed to T-Day at Anna's (a wonderful friend I had made at the opera) and I called Anna with incoherent excuses.  I roamed the house the rest of the day, smelling everyone's turkey on the block through the windows, watching families gather, and feeling exquisite self-pity.  I could not summon a single vision of my future.

 

Anna called later, wormed the truth out of me, and Friday the next day arrived with a care package of turkey and kim chee (half her family is Korean).  She bullied me into attending and doing my duty the day after that, Saturday (still no word from my future ex), the night of the annual Opera Supers party, which I chaired.  I had the keys to the venue and the calling tree for caterers, decorations and appetizers, I had to be there before everyone and after the last dog was hung.  I was also in the traditional Super Skit.  OK, it ain't Broadway, but these were 200 of my closest friends.  Anna pushed me into an outfit I never would have dared to wear (If you Google "Issey Miyake" images with my name, there's a picture of me in a vast pleated gold lame blouse mugging for the paparazzi at the party), she mashed mascara on my face and drove me to the Marina location, bitching at my self-absorption the entire time.

 

Bless her heart.

 

I sucked it up and had a fabulous time.  In sexy leggings and heels even though I was fat.  Anna knew that the surest way to get my blood flowing again was to tell me that the show must go on.  Future executors of my estate, take note: forget taking my pulse when I flatline.  Tell me the stage manager is paging me by name to stage left.  I will rise like Lazarus.  That's a good friend.  I am grateful to good friends.

 

And that lizard-brain reaction to a stage cue?  I get that from Mom.  For that I am grateful.

 

Thanksgiving 2003 itself was the worst day in my life that did not involve arrest, cardiac or otherwise.  Within 48 hours, friendship and living well triumphed.  Today I get to look out the window and smell turkey and salt air, I can see families visiting and crashing waves, spumes 40 feet in the air.  For that I am grateful.  Not quite smug, because who knows about tomorrow, but right now, I am content.

 

Truman Capote may have had a more heart-tugging "Christmas Memory" but that's my "Thanksgiving Memory."  Capote, the better wordsmith, had his immortal Sook put it this way:

 

"My, how foolish I am! You know what I've always thought? I've always thought a body would have to be sick and dying before they saw the Lord. And I imagined that when He came it would be like looking at the Baptist window: pretty as colored glass with the sun pouring through, such a shine you don't know it's getting dark. And it's been a comfort: to think of that shine taking away all the spooky feeling. But I'll wager it never happens. I'll wager at the very end a body realizes the Lord has already shown Himself. That things as they are, just what they've always seen, was seeing Him. As for me, I could leave the world with today in my eyes.'

And for that I am most grateful.