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.
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