Here comes a new decade

Another year of stupid pointless garish xmas / not xmas celebration

Another in a series. Nice people. A good time. Many questions as to the future of our planet. This is a weird world.

Good Bye Reny

The second mom left us December 5th, 2019.  I am not sure what is to be said about a woman who had the courage to live to almost 90, fortified with a great faith and surrounded by love, even when that love sometimes felt at arms length. She survived the Japanese occupation of Indonesia, the repatriation to Holland, post war European scarcities, emigration to a strange new country and four children.  Reny Maassen was a good woman, not without faults and imperfections, like all of us. Death is unfair but not always unwelcome. She missed Jules.

I miss her.

Continuing cycle of sweet old women tipping over

The idiotic scope of human life reasserted itself, giving sweet and kind old Dutch woman a stroke, a punctured lung and dementia, complete with a all expense due trip to the Hospice facility in Kirkland. It truly fails my sense of fairness how death creeps up us, to seize the weakest and least offensive of our tribe. Why is our existence predicated on our eventual demise? Why are we here to simply whither and die? Reny is my last parent, my wife's mother but someone who accepted me into her family and who I have loved as a mom for over thirty five years and I already miss her.

What I said for my Mom.

For better or worse, here is what my eulogy for my mom was on Oct 5, 2019. 

There a thousand little things I could tell you about Ginny. She loved candy, and hid it from us kids, but she was absolutely terrible at hiding things.  She loved a beautiful garden but really didn’t like gardening. Trilliums and freesias were her favorite flowers. She loved  PBS and channel nine and and “ Masterpiece Theater”. She had a fascination for certain discussion topics; “What’s going on in out in space?” she would ask me, as if I had just come back from there, and we would talk about recent NASA flybys of Jupiter, or  of the rovers on Mars. That type of thing made her day to talk about. Maybe she still wants to be an astronaut when she grows up.  

The things that made up Virginia Nell McCallum Sander Anderson were fascinating, mundane, sweet, occasionally contradictory but always, always kind. Ginny was born on Valentine’s day, February 14, 1923. Her  Birthentine Valensday her family called it.  She was the fourth child, and only daughter of Nellie Perkins and Clifford McCallum. Her brothers, Donald, Hugh and Mal were all much older than Ginny, so her’s was a very special spot in their family. Her father Cliff, was a Seattle native who used to tell the story of watching the great Seattle fire of 1887 as a young boy  from his family home on Queen Anne hill. He became an engineer, mostly designing ships with the Skinner and Eddy Shipyards.  He also helped design the bridge mechanism for the Montlake Bridge in the U district. -Many times being late to something ,I have grumbled about the bridge being up and my grand father’s collaboration with my tardiness. - Ginny’s mother Nellie, who my family knew very well as our Nana, was wonderful and strong woman, whose detailed plans for her daughter’s life made an indelible impact on my mom.  Nellie’s father had abandoned his family in Seattle while he went off  to Alaskan gold fields. He never returned and her family had to make it on their own. So Nellie, despite her gentle nature, was made of some very tough stuff. She had her reasons for wanting to see her daughter succeed.

The legend was that Mom sat down at a piano when she was three and was upset that she couldn’t play it. Nellie decided then and there that this was Ginny’s true calling and that nothing would stand in the way of it.  Mom began lessons at 3. The next twenty some years of her life were defined by that instrument, for better or worse. She went on to play the piano throughout her school years, at Lincoln High School, at the University of Washington where she graduated cum laude from the music dept. She gave recitals and was a sought after accompanist. She often told us that while she loved playing and felt it was important to her, she also felt she missed out on certain parts of childhood.

Mom met my dad, Ned Sander, in high school. Dad told the story that as the Lincoln High School stage manager it was his job to set up the grand piano for Ginny McCallum, the pretty pianist who he was too shy to talk to. They met again at the University of Washington,  dated, and got engaged, all during World War two. Dad left for the war in Europe shortly after they got married.  I have read some of his letters home to her. Frankly, they are kind of embarrassing- boy, was that guy in love, and was he ever excited about coming home. And why wouldn’t he be? Ginny was beautiful, smart and talented.  Of course after V-E day, the army sent dad was sent to Japan for a year.

But, love wins: mom and dad had four kids: Joani, Bill, Dean and Jim- Ginny became a home-maker, stay at home mom, a housewife. She gave up her personal dreams, whatever they might have been, for us. I think we need to recognize that, not just through the lens of our present world where women have more opportunity and expectation of a career. I look at her granddaughters and see women with careers and wonder what she could have been had she been born 70 years later. Ginny gave up a lot of herself to be her kids’ full time mother. I asked her many times, and she said she never regretted it. I think about what we were all like as teenagers and I wonder.

When Dad died, too young and much too early, mom was a little lost, as anyone would be. I really think she wanted to go to work and find herself in the greater world but felt she was needed at home. It was 1972, she was forty nine years old with a ten year old still at home; what women did in those days was get remarried. She married an old friend from Lincoln High, Bud Anderson. They spent over 40 years together. Their relationship was sometimes difficult and hard for us kids to understand, but they were a unit, and we as a family came to love Bud in his own right.  As the youngest kid, by 8 years, I spent a lot of time with just the two of them. I like to think that I got to know them both pretty well as people and not just as parental authority figures. They were both pretty fun.  I liked them as people.  I am not sure everyone gets to say that about their parents. There were good years filled with travel and grandchildren. They had six grandchildren in all, and they both loved them very much.  She read a lot, had friends and activities. She spent thirty years volunteering at the Children’s Orthopedic Hospital Thrift shop, she did it until she couldn’t make change anymore on account of her eyesight. 

Mom fought depression through out her life, and had moments where she could be prickly, but generally she did not let those moments define her.  She tried to be there for us and to always project a positive outlook, even when she might not ultimately feel that way. That must have been hard.  There were times that drove us crazy: I remember getting beat up by the third grade bully and she seemed to take his side - “you must have done something, or maybe he was having a bad day?”, which you really didn’t want to hear. She tried to see the other side even in every argument. Trying to make lemonade from some really rotten lemons in the eyes of a 9 year old.   

While we were sitting with her in her last few days, Bill asked me my favorite mom story.  That was easy. I had taken her car to school and was going to drive it home for lunch. Lunchtime came around and I went out to the high school parking lot, the car was gone. Another car parked in its space. Panicked I ran to the office to report that my mom’s Volkswagen had been stolen. I called home. T0 the young people out there, this was an ancient time before cellphones. No answer. The people at school started to call the police. I called home again. Mom answered. “ Mom! the car’s gone! Somebody took it” “Oh no I needed it.  I went and got it. “ Long pause. “ I left a note!”  I went back to the spot where I had been parked, and under that car that had taken my space, in the middle of the asphalt stall was a 3x5 note that said  that“Took the car! Love Mom”

In her last few months, I asked if she had a favorite memory.  She thought about it and came back quickly with an answer and it was the certainty of it that surprised me -she said she was accompanist to a young woman, a dancer from the UW who was touring small towns in Eastern Washington, during the war. It sounded like cultural barnstorming to rural Washington. She said the dancer was very talented and the music was beautiful and the countryside was inspiring. She made it sound like it was just the two of them and that they had enjoyed the invigorating  freedom of it all. The image of eastern Washington of the 1940s, the wheat fields and vistas, of small town school auditoriums and a dancer, dancing to the music mom played so passionately.  It was kind of a shock. I had never heard this story- I had figured she would say something about life with my dad or travels with Bud, or us kids, but this is what she chose; proving that even your own mom is fairly unknowable in her deepest heart sometimes. It was surprising and gratifying that she had at least a taste of that sort of limitlessness and freedom of the world, a world that the years of piano scales and practice might have denied her.  Part of me wonders if it really happened, that maybe she was confusing dreams with reality, but I guess it doesn’t matter- I hope it was a beautiful memory. It certainly painted for me, a fresh picture of an amazing woman , a woman who was the first person I ever knew in this world. Someone who loved us unconditionally.

Something sweet has left the room

My mom, a kind and gentle person, not perfect, not superhuman in any way but a good and decent woman, a great mother and friend died on August 14, on her half birthday. She was 96.5 years old. It had been coming for some time. The machine was breaking down, and so was her sense of herself. Dementia is a strange thing. It takes little bits of you and reorders them or steals them so that it is difficult to plot your way through a conversation or possibly you become anxious or scared at nothing. Mom wasn't like that. She was an independent thinker and while very conservative person in her habits, accepted people as they were, and liked them. After getting the call that my mom had gone, I drove over and sat with her for a couple hours, waiting for the funeral home to come. It was a lonely visit. She was there and not there. The piece of furniture that she had inhabited was there but she wasn't. I hope that she wasn't uncomfortable or confused by what happened. I hope that she knew we were there and that she was very much loved by many. Maybe none of that matters.  My brothers and sister were all there the day she slipped into the spiral. The last time she was conversant was when all four of her children were there with her.  Dean went home to Spokane but the rest of us and our cousin took turns sitting with her. Most of her grandchildren saw her in this state. Occasionally she would open her eyes and make some effort at yes and no answers. At one point after being asleep for hours, I came in with one of my sons, who shares a name with my long dead father- I said to her :"Hey mom, Ned's here" and her eyes popped open. Did she think her long lost love was there to take her home? Was she disappointed that it was just her skinny grandson? I love you mom. Good bye.

Hair Dye, Awkward Kabuki Pantomime and Post Punk Pop at Three Quarters Speed without the Snarl Means the Past is a Forbidden Zone

I had never seen the Psychedelic Furs live. They have been prominent on my playlist in the studio for many years. "Forever Now" was one of the first gifts I gave my beloved in our courtship.  They are a very visceral audio lynchpin to my past, listening to their now thirty plus year old albums propels me to a very sacred time in my life. Unable to convince my love of my life to attend with me, I drug my 15 year old son to see them and James last night. You really never can go home again. But you can visit and laugh at your sixty year old uncles trying to be relevant with their dyed hair and sunglasses.
    After an opening band "Dear Boy" that was very good, and obviously (and admittedly ) influenced by both of the headliners. They were a pleasant surprise.  "James" the co-headliners- with the Furs - a band Laurie liked and who wound up on my playlist came out and while they were more trippy than their album work, they were really fun and interesting- most of the crowd seemed very into them and excited- singing along and crowd surfing the lead singer. It was great fun. Even the lad seemed invested. I knew something was possibly amiss when our friends decided to go after James. William mentioned that the Psychedelic Furs were releasing a new album- the kiss of death for antique English rockers of the late Jurassic- I was immediately dubious. Laurie had seen them twice in the 80's, at the height of their popularity, and while she liked them, she was essentially "meh"  about seeing them then. I guess I should have seen it coming.
    They played their greatest hits, of which, there are many for me. While I never expect anything to sound like their recorded versions, everything seemed to be at some barely recognizable half speed, with none of the hard driving edge that they had in the day. It was Indian Casino cover band material. Richard Butler used to have an almost Johnny Rotten snarl quality to his voice.  I realize nobody keeps that gravelly tone forever, and can still speak, but he seemed to be a lounge impersonator; complete with ridiculous rock stereotype Kabuki moves and smirks. It was a band counting heads in the audience and multiplying by ticket price to see if they made their mortgage payment. Where the audience (many of whom, like our friends, had left) had been energized by James, the remainder crowd seemed unmoved, like they were staying out of respect. After the first set I grabbed my son and we left.
    I wanted to salvage what I could of my Psychedelic Furs affection.  I missed several of my favorite songs that I am sure they played after we left. I didn't want my most indelible memory of a band from my post college days of romance, to be chubby old guys in curated "rock" wardrobe crooning "Into You Like A Train" like it was some sort of meandering ballad. Everything will eventually disappoint you, and that what you thought was special, will eventually be proven not to be. You can still hold things in their memory, in their own space and time as special.  Seeing the Psychedelic Furs in 2019 was not that space and time. I hope I rescued something of them for myself by leaving early.

Trailer Park

Test Trailer for Milk of Amnesia

Its a start.

Digging a hole and filling it with your past

 In our youth (when we were beautiful and interesting) Laurie and I made a movie together. "Milk of Amnesia" (AKA "Oedipal Breakfast") is a lot of things to us: a major achievement, a source of ongoing disagreement and a financial millstone around our neck that took years to shed. It is feature length and professionally finished. It is far from perfect and arguably not close to what we had originally envisioned but it has it's charms. It was a labor of something like love (maybe a "toil of like"?) - Laurie worked at a motion picture lab, and I worked at a video equipment rental house and studio. We made this film on a shoestring, using volunteer unpaid crew and talent. It took two plus years. It was a slow motion marathon. Once it was done, exhausted, bored with our new toy and afraid that any further exposure to it would doom our marriage, "Milk of Amnesia" was relegated to a pile of film cans and tapes in the closet beneath our stairs. Our kids never asked about it. We blissfully forgot.  Like an itch that was never scratched we would poke at it every few years and think about breaking it out to show somewhere. Crowd source funding of course took over and we are transferring it so we can run it in a theater. People seemed interested.  It feels both good and uncomfortable. I don't like messing with the dead. I had put this part of my life away, and it was pretty easy not ignore the pile of cans in the closet.I am hoping that it doesnt dredge up any bad sediment that had settled under us. Digging it all up it is delicate.

First Light.

There is some hope. The ice caps are melting and the carbon dioxide levels are higher than ever but there are young people who have skills and kindnesses to offer.  Ned graduated from the UW this week, with degrees in Informatics and Economics. He made the Dean's list for most of his time there and was on academic scholarship.  Laurie and I are very proud of him. Tom is finishing his first year of high school at Garfield, and is a good kid. Where does this go?  I don't know but these two are much loved and will hopefully be part of the solution to the problems their preceding generations have left them.

Arbitrary Milestone in my Personal Decrepitude

I am turning fifty-eight years old.  It is a mildly disheartening feeling. That's forty years since I graduated from high school and the world seemed large and open and any direction seemed ripe for exploration. I, of course did none of that, I graduated from college, came back to my home town and never left. I did meet, fall in love with, coerce into marriage and reproduce with my favorite person ever, which softens that blow considerably, but still my life has been one long and continual settlement for the least amount of hassle. And now it is mostly over. The growing number of age related maladies and self inflicted sins of indulged, feigned ignorance are taking their toll. The death of friends, and contemporaries are now commonplace. Illnesses arrive in people I know like a lottery with an ever shrinking pool of numbers. My parents generation have shrunk to my mother in law, who sweetly struggles with her loss of memory, trying to valiantly hold on to what she can, and my own kind, sometimes mercurial mother who has given it up and now waits for a quiet exit while watching Filipino soap operas with the attendants. Fifty Eight seems old. Words and names seem to escape me. Thoughts which once came like a sprinter going downhill are plodding like walking in deep snow and mud. I partially blame the dopamine of the iPhone for it's faux pleasure in trivial information at your fingertips. I realize the internet is full of inspiring tales of people who do great things after their prime earning years. I know that there are amazing things still available to me. I know that I could be that person, but I also know I won't be. Some day I will wish I were this young again but all I can think of is that I wish I could do it over again  with the perspective that I have now. The world that now takes shape upon waking in the morning no longer feels boundless. What is left feels broken and increasingly shabby, like a piece of carrion fought over by scavengers.

There is a certain disappointment here.

The Unbearable Tragedy of Gravity and Mortality

Notre Dame burned today. Something so beautiful had to be destroyed because everything must be taken before the end.  The great disruption continues, the waking nightmare that never stops. The hours  on hours that we stare unblinking at our screens waiting for the light to blink out. The glitch in the matrix has been seen. The ghosts are nearby. Everything is destined for the whirlpool. I don't want to fall, but the ladder is rickety and I must go higher. My friend Lorraine died April 4th. The cathedral burned April 15th. What waits for us in May?

Burning Elf 2018 : the lower the expectations the bigger the bonfire?

Burning Elf 2018 was as enjoyable as a wholly invented sub/alt Xmas social event could be.  It is interesting how it has become the beloved holiday family tradition  for other people.  When those who are children today look back on their lives as 110 year olds in their cryogenic post nuclear holocaust life enclosures on Mars, and remember the sepia colored golden holidays of their youth, some will have the ridiculousness of a flaming 7 foot tall elf burned indelibly into their psyche.

People came, ate my sadly mediocre chili (next year Laurie cooks all three, mine were sub par this year) and of course we burnt the elf. I was tired of feeling like it looked too human, so made it look like a robot this year, which of course made it more human looking and so a little creepy. The firework were sadly also unimpressive: the extravaganza I bought was unusable because of overhanging trees. All in all a solid 7.5 on the elf scale for 2018