But sometimes, we remember our bedrooms, And our parent's bedrooms, And the bedrooms of our friends. Then we think of our parents: Well what ever happened to them? --Arcade Fire, "Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)"
Today, it's sinking in more.
Yesterday was a daze and maze of "Are we flying over? Can we make it in time for the service? Who's going? What's $2500? What are you thinking?...I don't know, what are YOU thinking?"
We siblings always knew it would be complicated whenever we got The Call. We also knew, after all my father's medical ups and downs, we wouldn't get any call until he's already passed. There's no off-the-shelf plan for dropping everything AND flying for 16-22 hours AND taking the train out of Prague AND finding transport to the village where not even the bus line goes.
After pow-wowing with siblings last night, my brother and I played some already scheduled hockey and had beer with the guys afterward. Several of them have met my father, and all of them have heard the stories. There were many toasts with Czech beer.
On the way home, my brother and I cracked each other up with stories. Like this one:
The time, shortly after the divorce, when my dad made dinner of salisbury steaks (from the frozen box) for my friend Wiley and me. We were 9. My dad asked Wiley what he wanted to drink. "What do you have?" Wiley asked, the way kids probe the full inventory of goods available under their friend's parents' regime.
My dad, playing the new host: "Water, Sanka, tonic water, Tang, beer, President's Choice." (Notice the distinct budget-conscious nature of this menu.)
Wiley and I stared at each other, eyes wide. "Beer?" Wiley asked, raising one eyebrow the way no one else in our class could. "Um, dad...?" I uttered feebly, feeling like I had to be the adult but knowing I had no power.
"Well, it is Busch, so American. It is not really beer," he said in his authoritative accent -- Who were we to question him? Wiley didn't need to ask twice.
So while I drank freaking Tang, my nine-year-old friend had a beer with his salisbury steak dinner, and I sat there stewing in a mix of jealousy and fear of unknown consequences. Lord knows how the Busch got there in the first place, because my dad sure didn't drink it. This was a budgetary way of getting rid of undesirable inventory without "wasting" it.
* * * *
Anyway, last night when I dropped my brother off after the hockey and toasts, as I was pulling away, he flagged me and said: "In case you get hit by a cement truck or something, I love you. You're a good brother." Heh heh, awesome. Ain't that life? I love the balance, in those scenarios, between "I want you to hear this in case something happens" and "I want to have told you this, in case something happens."
I pulled into my driveway under that unmistakable afterglow of having soaked up the the presence of friends and family, again reaffirming that life never gets better than that. My wife and I talked and shared until we fell asleep -- probably the only time I'll ever get a free pass for waking her up with my dog-disturbing racket when I come in late from hockey. I fell asleep smiling.
Today feels a little different. With plans a little more solidified, I'm not as distracted by business-like logistics. The transition from present "is" to past "was" is poking me in the back of the head; soon it will move down to the heart. The stories keep flowing in. And the music. Yesterday, in the car, I wasn't sure what to play. It's been all NPR lately because I'm fascinated by the financial crisis -- so many economists, recognizing problems but with different perspectives on what is needed -- but I thought, given my personal news, I should put music on.
Staring at me from the sun visor was Arcade Fire's "Funeral" album, which knocked me in the gut when I first heard it a few years ago. But I wasn't ready for that yesterday. Today though, "Funeral" has come on organically via alphabetized iTunes. So now I'm in that mode, and other people's memories are adding to the effect.
* * * *
Like the university cafeteria memories:
My dad was, ah, "frugal" in the stereotypical "cheap Czech" sense, but also in the Depression-era habits of a guy who had nothing, lived in fear under Nazi occupation and then without much to his name as an immigrant here. When I was a kid, we drove around town looking for 87-cent gas vs. 88-cents. When it was his turn to drive the carpool with my friends, the rag he used to wipe the windshield -- because "defrost" didn't work on our ancient cars -- was a pair of my Fruit of the Loom briefs from two sizes ago. My friends would point at it and laugh -- but not too loudly, because ultimately his mysterious nature scared the crap out of them.
So my dad always loaded up on food -- which he loved in all forms but Indian -- wherever he could. Professors used to get lunch free (then later half-price) at the university cafeteria. So for his cheapest meal of the day, he LOADED that tray. Memories coming in from old colleagues mention his academic brilliance and, inevitably, "that overflowing tray!"
One from today said, "We were still telling stories in the cafeteria recently about his prodigious salads."
Ah life. It's about friends; family; and oh yeah don't forget: Food.
dominik, having lost my sister recently and my mother two years ago, i will tell you i'm impressed by how often i think of them. it's a loss that i envisioned would be much different, with memories fading over time, and just a well of emotions to cling to. rather it is almost as if they have never left, i just can't call or visit them. it is actually quite entertaining how these random vivid memories just pop up out of nowhere, things you may not have thought about for years. so my advice to you is to write them down as they come to you; you'll have yourself quite a treasure to pass on to your, er, nieces and nephews. believe me, they'll appreciate it.
By thomas - 10/9/2008 2:29 PM
Oh, Dominik, that "present to past" socked me in the gut tonight and I had to punch the recliner. Thanks for capturing it so well. Please, more stories.
By KayO - 10/9/2008 4:46 PM
I'm sorry. I know it's tacky, but this is all I have...
I do not expect you to understand, especially given the differences, night and day, of our experiences of the same man. I don't mean to take away from the fondness you feel for him, but a good reporter/writer must tell the whole story....
I love you.
By no one you know - 10/14/2008 3:26 PM
...wait, he actually cooked dinner for you guys?! I am so freaking jealous!
when I was nine I was cooking dinner for HIM, every night, inbetween beatings, while taking care of the household as well as his one-year-old son.
Because, mom was working late or out with her baby-girl Sonia. Martin was at Boy/Eagle Scouts, Draz was out cheerleading, Marg was out with her boyfriend...did I forget anyone?
I was left at home alone with this monster, trying to protect you and Sonia from him. Margarita had to do the same with the first three. I think he was even worse then. I saw him horse-whip mom once, but Margarita witnessed much, much worse. I left that horror house as soon as I could drive a car.
My memories of him are too terrible to write. The nightmares and torture he invoked... well, ...he was a real psycho-horror of a man, as well as a PhD. But we loved him, that crazy guy, what with his crazy-eyes, his beloved horse-whip, elephant whip, and score-sheet on the kitchen wall which kept track of all our sins and trangressions.
...oh, and we also had to walk to school. uphill - both ways. in the snow. with no boots on. Sometimes I had to carry Sonia in one arm and you in the other because all you had on were sandals... and we liked it that way!
P.S. I'm going to hell for this aren't I. Darn Catholics.
By no one you know - 10/21/2008 1:10 PM
*whew*
finally, enough time has passed and enough hooch has been enjoyed to produce a relaxed state of being with regards to this matter.
Conclusion: sure, he was my dad. but he wasn't just mine.
he meant a lot of things to a lot of people and it would be selfish of me to impose his not-so-pleasant side to the people who saw the *other* sides of him. and it would be stupid of me to ignore the relevance of what these people saw in him - so I vow to change my perspective and enjoy what's there.
so I apologize to anyone who reads this blog and was exposed to my rants and silliness above. i'll assume you realize they were written in the midst of a loss and a bit of confusion, due to a freakish upbringing... which has since been corrected.
Curiously, the loss I feel about his passing is the same loss I have felt since I first realized that he was my father.
but he wasn't just mine... so, um, like.... Merry Christmas and all that. Peace in the New Year and good will to all men (and women)... "I want to be called Loretta"
By no one you know - 12/25/2008 8:45 AM
No worries, ain't no thang. I realize where you're coming from.
This part really resonated with me: "Curiously, the loss I feel about his passing is the same loss I have felt since I first realized that he was my father."
That's how I felt, too -- and my initial parting at the airport was some sort of pre-coda, like "Okay, that's what you had for a father. You did your best to make something of it. Now it's done."
Your line above, that sentiment is the hardest part to convey to people who don't already know something about the uh, "peculiar" relationship (Southerners called slavery their "peculiar institution," so I thought it apt). They expect a "normal" reaction to the passing of a father ("Gee, he doesn't seem upset, maybe he's in shock"), but it's not like that. And since they don't know me well enough to know about the history, no answer makes them feel better that they've done their Acquaintance Best to make me feel better. "Really, it's fine."
I think the death also inevitably made me go back through all the same things again, like a retrospective. But the conclusion is the same as it seemed it would be back at the airport.
As you may have noticed, the site has changed. Sampa, the free-site host, did a version 2 of some sort.
Despite an FAQ that made it sound like allowing one's site to go through v.2 surgery would be okay, there were several flexibilities that surprisingly disappeared with the click of a button. (e.g. I cannot believe sidebars like this one are even narrower than before.)
And I'm told -- miraculously! -- that the conversion cannot be undone. Truth be told, I'm actually quite pissed. But free is free. Sampa has otherwise been good to me.
So I need to sort through site "features" to see how I can make do. Except that I don't have the time at the moment, in the middle of graduate classes and Lighthousehockey.com. (btw, I've removed that Lighthouse RSS feed so that you're not clogged with random Islanders hockey gibberish).
But I promise to touch up the accessories when I get a chance, and return to irregularly scheduled blogging.
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February, 2008