Some Family History
A thing that most of us are ignorant of is that my grandmother gave birth to my mom and then a year later, in 1918, went off for a ten year stay to the State Hospital in Austin. It is my understanding that she died there. My grandfather we knew nothing about until two years ago, four of my mother's step-siblings showed up at her funeral. She had never met them in life. They were in their seventies and although I did not meet them at the funeral, my sister did, and kept up with them by email for awhile after that. Apparently grandfather had tried over the years to establish contact with the family but our mother, who I guess was confused and upset by a lifetime's worth of imagined abandonment, was resistant to his efforts. She was raised briefly by her grandmother on the farm east of Austin near Elgin, and then by an aunt and uncle in South Texas, near the King Ranch. In her lifetime all but the most convoluted and possibly twisted facts of her brief memory of her father were kept from us. I know nothing of the events that led to my grandmother's insanity or if the nature of her illness was actually severe or just something similar to that suffered by the many of my contemporaries who pop anti-depressants, but even allowing for the primitive state of psychology in 1920s Texas, ten years seems like a long time to be institutionalized for a minor illness. Grandpa remarried and had another family and they have lived all their lives in small college town south of Austin. One of my brothers went to college in that town over thirty years ago and by accident ran into my grandfather's new wife, who was working in the college cafeteria, and so I have known most of this story for that amount of time, but wasn't sure I believed it until it was confirmed two years ago. My brother had confronted my mom about the story back in those days but apparently she did not want to talk about it. Some people like to hold onto things, to the grave.
Grandpa parked his truck on the side of the road and got out to get his mail. The parking brake failed and he was run over and killed
I sent an email off to the State Hospital in Austin to inquire whether or not it was possible to access patient records from the 1920s. I received back a failure of delivery notice.
...more recent posts
For Me And You
As a person not so musically adept it oddly struck me that one of the string players was out of tune or out of sync and if that ubiquitous number played at so many weddings was discordant to my ears then what must it have sounded like to those know their music?
Then the guitar player plugged in and asked every one to stand and as it was so shortly after the preacher had just said we could sit down it felt almost like a revolution, one where musicians and preachers battle for supremacy. The guitar strummer instructed everyone to clap along and Bernadette clapped along. I wanted to tell her that being dragged along to these family weddings does not mean you have to clap when told to. Instead, I just waited out the song while occasionally looking at the big screen with the projected lyrics. It wasn't but a bit later that we were instructed to raise our right appendages in the fashion of a laying on of hands and I did this, so who am I to tell Bernadette not to be a hand clapping sheep? She is no sheep I can tell you that and I am sure she clapped only because she felt like it. I on the other hand raised my arm in the air because I felt that being a sheep in this case would be better than being a sacrificial lamb.
It was a nice wedding affair in any case, perhaps a little long seeming at times but then made up for later by a quickening of pace.
At the dinner afterwards my oldest brother led a few devout Texans in the singing of the Eyes of Texas, which is the University fight song and although I won't fact check this, may also be the state song. The wedding was in Virginia.
Who knew that three quarters of the remaining attendees were Canadians? When they got their chance they sang the Canadian National Anthem, which is quite lovely, and again there was the feeling of revolution in the air. A not so old white haired gentleman weaved between the tables waving a small Canadian flag.
Then came a bunch of heartfelt testimonials from friends and relatives of the bride and groom and while I wasn't altogether bored to tears I got within a hair's breadth of it. If there had been alcohol served I would have let my tears flow and when asked if I was all right I would have confessed to one of my new best friends, my new Canadian drinking buddy, that yes I was all right, I'm just allergic to Canadians. We would have gotten a hearty guffaw out of that one and he would have come back--Steers and Queers, nowhere but Texas, which frankly I don't think is very funny.
By all reports, God was in the room and so I should have thanked Him in person for the 9-year-old sister of the bride singing the Sinatra classic, L-O-V-E, which goes like this:
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
There is nothing like a clear-voiced and confident 9-year-old girl singing Sinatra to restore your faith in all that is right in the world. She narrowly beat out the Canadians for song of the day and was at last counting in a too close to call tie with the chocolate cream filled cupcakes as things that made the trip worthwhile. The Honorable Mentions go to my few family members in attendance. It's good to be together once in awhile.
As a person not so musically adept it oddly struck me that one of the string players was out of tune or out of sync and if that ubiquitous number played at so many weddings was discordant to my ears then what must it have sounded like to those know their music?
Then the guitar player plugged in and asked every one to stand and as it was so shortly after the preacher had just said we could sit down it felt almost like a revolution, one where musicians and preachers battle for supremacy. The guitar strummer instructed everyone to clap along and Bernadette clapped along. I wanted to tell her that being dragged along to these family weddings does not mean you have to clap when told to. Instead, I just waited out the song while occasionally looking at the big screen with the projected lyrics. It wasn't but a bit later that we were instructed to raise our right appendages in the fashion of a laying on of hands and I did this, so who am I to tell Bernadette not to be a hand clapping sheep? She is no sheep I can tell you that and I am sure she clapped only because she felt like it. I on the other hand raised my arm in the air because I felt that being a sheep in this case would be better than being a sacrificial lamb.
It was a nice wedding affair in any case, perhaps a little long seeming at times but then made up for later by a quickening of pace.
At the dinner afterwards my oldest brother led a few devout Texans in the singing of the Eyes of Texas, which is the University fight song and although I won't fact check this, may also be the state song. The wedding was in Virginia.
Who knew that three quarters of the remaining attendees were Canadians? When they got their chance they sang the Canadian National Anthem, which is quite lovely, and again there was the feeling of revolution in the air. A not so old white haired gentleman weaved between the tables waving a small Canadian flag.
Then came a bunch of heartfelt testimonials from friends and relatives of the bride and groom and while I wasn't altogether bored to tears I got within a hair's breadth of it. If there had been alcohol served I would have let my tears flow and when asked if I was all right I would have confessed to one of my new best friends, my new Canadian drinking buddy, that yes I was all right, I'm just allergic to Canadians. We would have gotten a hearty guffaw out of that one and he would have come back--Steers and Queers, nowhere but Texas, which frankly I don't think is very funny.
By all reports, God was in the room and so I should have thanked Him in person for the 9-year-old sister of the bride singing the Sinatra classic, L-O-V-E, which goes like this:
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
There is nothing like a clear-voiced and confident 9-year-old girl singing Sinatra to restore your faith in all that is right in the world. She narrowly beat out the Canadians for song of the day and was at last counting in a too close to call tie with the chocolate cream filled cupcakes as things that made the trip worthwhile. The Honorable Mentions go to my few family members in attendance. It's good to be together once in awhile.
Breakfast On Houston
The woman at the next table said she didn't like it when it rains. She was into sunny days. Bernadette forgot her reading glasses and so did I. Instead of walking up five flights to retrieve them she had gone into the basement and picked up some spares. Mine weren't strong enough. I could read the menu ok but not the newspaper. Bernadette read with reckless abandon. I picked up various sections and read all the headlines. In short, the world is in trouble but there is March Madness to look forward to.
I also like sunny days.. I wasn't about to disagree with the woman. The woman's friend had opinions but spoke them quietly and seemed to accept her role as spring board for the thoughts of others.
I ordered The Lumberjack--two eggs, pancakes, bacon, ham, and sausage. Bernadette had two over easy and some kind of grain which I've seen her order before but am not myself knowledgeable about.
The thing is, the woman explained, I don't like phony people. Her friend didn't either. I had to glance over there for the first time to see if maybe she was a Playboy bunny but by all appearances, she wasn't.
I read a headline that made no sense to me but was unable to ferret out any meaning from the microscopic print below. I moved on to an advertisement that promised to make my penis erect for up to four hours. I'll be completely honest with you, I'm not sure I would know what to do with four hours of erect penis. I looked at the fat link sausage on my plate and knew I would not be able to eat it. Give me an Elgin hot gut any day but keep the rest for yourself. I started thinking about a companion manual to erection drugs, an activity guide for people like myself who may be flummoxed by the idea of how to make best use of a four hour blood engorged penis.
Bernadette read something funny and laughed. I did not ask what it was because I was afraid it would lose something in translation. The woman who wasn't a Playboy bunny had moved on to politics and she felt that politicians should be more honest. I had a muscle spasm and nodded.
A couple came in and sat down in the booth behind us. The man seemed eager to please and the woman acquiesced to his eagerness.
I haven't really decided which of the college basketball teams I will be rooting for because I can't read the fine print.
The woman at the next table said she didn't like it when it rains. She was into sunny days. Bernadette forgot her reading glasses and so did I. Instead of walking up five flights to retrieve them she had gone into the basement and picked up some spares. Mine weren't strong enough. I could read the menu ok but not the newspaper. Bernadette read with reckless abandon. I picked up various sections and read all the headlines. In short, the world is in trouble but there is March Madness to look forward to.
I also like sunny days.. I wasn't about to disagree with the woman. The woman's friend had opinions but spoke them quietly and seemed to accept her role as spring board for the thoughts of others.
I ordered The Lumberjack--two eggs, pancakes, bacon, ham, and sausage. Bernadette had two over easy and some kind of grain which I've seen her order before but am not myself knowledgeable about.
The thing is, the woman explained, I don't like phony people. Her friend didn't either. I had to glance over there for the first time to see if maybe she was a Playboy bunny but by all appearances, she wasn't.
I read a headline that made no sense to me but was unable to ferret out any meaning from the microscopic print below. I moved on to an advertisement that promised to make my penis erect for up to four hours. I'll be completely honest with you, I'm not sure I would know what to do with four hours of erect penis. I looked at the fat link sausage on my plate and knew I would not be able to eat it. Give me an Elgin hot gut any day but keep the rest for yourself. I started thinking about a companion manual to erection drugs, an activity guide for people like myself who may be flummoxed by the idea of how to make best use of a four hour blood engorged penis.
Bernadette read something funny and laughed. I did not ask what it was because I was afraid it would lose something in translation. The woman who wasn't a Playboy bunny had moved on to politics and she felt that politicians should be more honest. I had a muscle spasm and nodded.
A couple came in and sat down in the booth behind us. The man seemed eager to please and the woman acquiesced to his eagerness.
I haven't really decided which of the college basketball teams I will be rooting for because I can't read the fine print.
Virgin(ia) No More
It seems like just weeks ago (because it was) that she played like an innocent little kitten in her cardboard boxes, and batted catnip infused stuffed mice in the air and generally exhibited behavior that could only be described by the most curmudgeonly as not cute.
And then there were some scheduling snafus and I didn't get her over to the vet soon enough and she became something like a woman but not a woman in the good sense and the few people that know her out here, including me (but I'm trying to understand), have started calling her a slut.
It's nature happening and there is nothing slutty about nature or if there is it's slutty in a good way or slutty in a necessary way. We need to stop calling her a slut I think. She is still cute and the fact that she was seen rolling around seductively on the back porch yesterday evening while two big-headed scarred up Tom cats licked there lips should not be seen as evidence that she is not cute. In fact she may now be considered really cute or cute as in hot or cute in the way that is considered a compliment to adolescent girls.
I was worried about her and didn't sleep at all that first night she didn't come in. It was pretty cold out and she has always been kind of take it or leave it regarding the great outdoors. I was sure she had foolishly tangled with one of the super-territorial foxes out here and I pictured myself finding her mutilated carcass lying under the dogwood tree.
She wasn't dead though she was just out late with the boys making those weird guttural noises, with her tail high and inviting in the air.
I had her scheduled for the spaying this past Monday, before all the sex started, but having her spayed and then going out of town the next day seemed incautious so I rescheduled for next Monday.
Bernadette has been making slut jokes about her and I think it is starting to affect the cat's self-esteem.
We were at a bar last night and ran into Lorina who has cat-sitted for me once before and I told her about the recent activity and Lorina said she was a slut. I said well I'm glad she at least got to experience sex before the spaying and Lorina said yeah so she can know what she's missing for the rest of her life.
I think the once and previous kitten will be better off for it though and that the knowing look that adult cats often pretend will in the case of my little Virginia be well earned.
It seems like just weeks ago (because it was) that she played like an innocent little kitten in her cardboard boxes, and batted catnip infused stuffed mice in the air and generally exhibited behavior that could only be described by the most curmudgeonly as not cute.
And then there were some scheduling snafus and I didn't get her over to the vet soon enough and she became something like a woman but not a woman in the good sense and the few people that know her out here, including me (but I'm trying to understand), have started calling her a slut.
It's nature happening and there is nothing slutty about nature or if there is it's slutty in a good way or slutty in a necessary way. We need to stop calling her a slut I think. She is still cute and the fact that she was seen rolling around seductively on the back porch yesterday evening while two big-headed scarred up Tom cats licked there lips should not be seen as evidence that she is not cute. In fact she may now be considered really cute or cute as in hot or cute in the way that is considered a compliment to adolescent girls.
I was worried about her and didn't sleep at all that first night she didn't come in. It was pretty cold out and she has always been kind of take it or leave it regarding the great outdoors. I was sure she had foolishly tangled with one of the super-territorial foxes out here and I pictured myself finding her mutilated carcass lying under the dogwood tree.
She wasn't dead though she was just out late with the boys making those weird guttural noises, with her tail high and inviting in the air.
I had her scheduled for the spaying this past Monday, before all the sex started, but having her spayed and then going out of town the next day seemed incautious so I rescheduled for next Monday.
Bernadette has been making slut jokes about her and I think it is starting to affect the cat's self-esteem.
We were at a bar last night and ran into Lorina who has cat-sitted for me once before and I told her about the recent activity and Lorina said she was a slut. I said well I'm glad she at least got to experience sex before the spaying and Lorina said yeah so she can know what she's missing for the rest of her life.
I think the once and previous kitten will be better off for it though and that the knowing look that adult cats often pretend will in the case of my little Virginia be well earned.
Intermission
Like a man possessed (by bad judgment) I went outside at 6 this morning to retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the bighouse up the hill. I had dressed hastily and the 13 degree temperature made my head ache as if I had drunk the cheap rum in trying to keep up with Albee's George and Martha.
Oh that sly bastard Mr. BC, sure he knew that I would get down to the cheap rum eventually. It was all part of his master plan and no doubt he has been smirking since that day he tricked me into drinking his 200 dollar bottle of scotch, waiting for my descension. Oh, how did I not see this coming? Well played Mr. BC, well played.
Anyway, I thought I was going to die, that my head was going to split open right there on the sidewalk lugging that 600 dollar vacuum cleaner which if you ask me for that price should never break unless you drop if from a ten story building. I put it in the back seat of the Jeep. Step one completed, or two actually if you're into making a simple task sound a lot harder than it is and by doing so puffing up your imagined worth to an audience that includes one small cat and some geese.
What was step one? Does it really matter?
There was no Pulitzer awarded for drama the year the play came out because Albee's language was too harsh for the times, and to award anyone else the prize I think would have considerably devalued the committee's standing. Two years later a movie version came out and the language was adjusted somewhat so that Martha's frequent attacks on George came out--Goddamn you George, instead of Screw you George. When I was growing up I always thought that screw you was a polite way to say fuck you and as befits my upbringing I tried to stay at a level of politeness. Goddamn though I thought would bring down bolts of wrath from heaven and even to this day I try to avoid the use of that word.
After a couple of large drinks (George has been through several 8 ounce tumblers by this time) it came to me that the actors were probably just drinking colored water. My head was spinning uniquely and I lost my focus on that amazingly well crafted script. I was of the opinion that I should be listening soberly so I paused the movie and where we are now is the intermission.
Like a man possessed (by bad judgment) I went outside at 6 this morning to retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the bighouse up the hill. I had dressed hastily and the 13 degree temperature made my head ache as if I had drunk the cheap rum in trying to keep up with Albee's George and Martha.
Oh that sly bastard Mr. BC, sure he knew that I would get down to the cheap rum eventually. It was all part of his master plan and no doubt he has been smirking since that day he tricked me into drinking his 200 dollar bottle of scotch, waiting for my descension. Oh, how did I not see this coming? Well played Mr. BC, well played.
Anyway, I thought I was going to die, that my head was going to split open right there on the sidewalk lugging that 600 dollar vacuum cleaner which if you ask me for that price should never break unless you drop if from a ten story building. I put it in the back seat of the Jeep. Step one completed, or two actually if you're into making a simple task sound a lot harder than it is and by doing so puffing up your imagined worth to an audience that includes one small cat and some geese.
What was step one? Does it really matter?
There was no Pulitzer awarded for drama the year the play came out because Albee's language was too harsh for the times, and to award anyone else the prize I think would have considerably devalued the committee's standing. Two years later a movie version came out and the language was adjusted somewhat so that Martha's frequent attacks on George came out--Goddamn you George, instead of Screw you George. When I was growing up I always thought that screw you was a polite way to say fuck you and as befits my upbringing I tried to stay at a level of politeness. Goddamn though I thought would bring down bolts of wrath from heaven and even to this day I try to avoid the use of that word.
After a couple of large drinks (George has been through several 8 ounce tumblers by this time) it came to me that the actors were probably just drinking colored water. My head was spinning uniquely and I lost my focus on that amazingly well crafted script. I was of the opinion that I should be listening soberly so I paused the movie and where we are now is the intermission.
Moby Dick
It seemed like two different movies, the one in which Orson Wells climbs a rope ladder to a pulpit mimicking a ship and the one where Richard Basehart says call me Ishmael (which I will if you ask but could you work harder to make me believe that you are).
Although the acting was sufficient to convey the story and the screenplay by Ray Bradbury and (co-writer and director) Huston was well done if by necessity pared down a bit lean, I feel the potential of this being a great movie, while approached, was not reached.
It could be that the expectations raised by Wells as Father Mapple were too high for any project to live up to and it is therefore no fault of Gregory Peck that I kept thinking throughout the movie--Gee, he sure is no Orson Wells.
It was good clean fun though and I'm certainly not regretting that it is what I chose to help me while away yesterday evening.
I could say one great fish story reminds me of another except that whales aren't fish and the story I am reminded of isn't that great, nor does it include that many fish.
I can never seem to escape during periods of deep reflection the Fishorama on the former Lake Lewisville north of Dallas. In fact, as often as not if you see me lost in thought or you ask me what I'm thinking about (and I say nothing) I am probably thinking about the Fishorama. It is where I go to visit my father who has been dead coming up on 15 years. And it was 20 years or more before that that we were at the Fishorama together, which was an enclosed barn-like space jutting out into the water, with walkways around 16 or 20 rectangular "fishing holes" protected by painted tubular railings. And chairs, there were chairs to sit in if you were not as eager as I, leaning over the railing looking at my reflection and the always predictable bream near the surface, swimming lazily beneath that reflection.
My father was no great fisherman nor did he pretend to be or as far as I could tell, aspire to hooking fish. It was relatively late in my adolescence that I realized he wasn't much of a ball player either and I cringe with admiration when remembering the afternoon he suggested, for the first time, that we play catch. I was 15 and he was sixty-something. He couldn't throw worth a damn, or catch that well, and before I was able to do much damage to his person he admitted as much and then disappeared to the other side of the patio gate. I can imagine he went inside and told my mother of his failure. He was a father of six and a veteran of two wars and a journalist and a political consultant for people both crooked and honest, but he couldn't throw or catch a ball. Some people realize it much sooner but I lived a pretty sheltered life I guess and it was the first time I came to see that grownups were fallible. After that of course it was pretty much an open flood gate and as a wizened 15-year-old I arrived at the conclusion that all grownups, to put it mildly, were fallible.
There he is though, back in 1969 or 70, walking up the floating sidewalk to the Fishorama, alongside that little freckled wisp of boy whose brown head glowed red in the afternoon sun. People were always mistaking him for the boy's grandfather. He got a kick out of that is the way he put it. It was one of the things he could pull off convincingly, which is as good as it gets sometimes, regarding this definition of who a man is. I am not a fisherman, I am not a ballplayer, I am this boy's grandfather.
It seemed like two different movies, the one in which Orson Wells climbs a rope ladder to a pulpit mimicking a ship and the one where Richard Basehart says call me Ishmael (which I will if you ask but could you work harder to make me believe that you are).
Although the acting was sufficient to convey the story and the screenplay by Ray Bradbury and (co-writer and director) Huston was well done if by necessity pared down a bit lean, I feel the potential of this being a great movie, while approached, was not reached.
It could be that the expectations raised by Wells as Father Mapple were too high for any project to live up to and it is therefore no fault of Gregory Peck that I kept thinking throughout the movie--Gee, he sure is no Orson Wells.
It was good clean fun though and I'm certainly not regretting that it is what I chose to help me while away yesterday evening.
I could say one great fish story reminds me of another except that whales aren't fish and the story I am reminded of isn't that great, nor does it include that many fish.
I can never seem to escape during periods of deep reflection the Fishorama on the former Lake Lewisville north of Dallas. In fact, as often as not if you see me lost in thought or you ask me what I'm thinking about (and I say nothing) I am probably thinking about the Fishorama. It is where I go to visit my father who has been dead coming up on 15 years. And it was 20 years or more before that that we were at the Fishorama together, which was an enclosed barn-like space jutting out into the water, with walkways around 16 or 20 rectangular "fishing holes" protected by painted tubular railings. And chairs, there were chairs to sit in if you were not as eager as I, leaning over the railing looking at my reflection and the always predictable bream near the surface, swimming lazily beneath that reflection.
My father was no great fisherman nor did he pretend to be or as far as I could tell, aspire to hooking fish. It was relatively late in my adolescence that I realized he wasn't much of a ball player either and I cringe with admiration when remembering the afternoon he suggested, for the first time, that we play catch. I was 15 and he was sixty-something. He couldn't throw worth a damn, or catch that well, and before I was able to do much damage to his person he admitted as much and then disappeared to the other side of the patio gate. I can imagine he went inside and told my mother of his failure. He was a father of six and a veteran of two wars and a journalist and a political consultant for people both crooked and honest, but he couldn't throw or catch a ball. Some people realize it much sooner but I lived a pretty sheltered life I guess and it was the first time I came to see that grownups were fallible. After that of course it was pretty much an open flood gate and as a wizened 15-year-old I arrived at the conclusion that all grownups, to put it mildly, were fallible.
There he is though, back in 1969 or 70, walking up the floating sidewalk to the Fishorama, alongside that little freckled wisp of boy whose brown head glowed red in the afternoon sun. People were always mistaking him for the boy's grandfather. He got a kick out of that is the way he put it. It was one of the things he could pull off convincingly, which is as good as it gets sometimes, regarding this definition of who a man is. I am not a fisherman, I am not a ballplayer, I am this boy's grandfather.
