Tuesday, June 21, 2011
It was an apricot orchard once, in the middle of a valley filled with them. Blenheims. Best apricots in the world. Then it became a back yard filled with fruit and nut trees. And a worm farm. Best fertilizer in the world; worm poop. But worms are not as low maintenance as you’d think, what with having to turn them over every day, and the occasional unfortunate shovel accident. Maybe they regenerate and grow new worm bits, but it was too disturbing. Plus, they tend to tunnel out of the yard.
In the 70’s as the trees died out, Dad planted elephant garlic, lettuce, beans, horseradish and corn. Mom would yell out the back door that the water was boiling and he’d run up the path, shucking the ears as he went, and toss the fresh cob into the pot. The lettuce had these weird little triangular contraptions over them because Mom had read some article about “pyramid power”; the concept being that the light, heat, and vegetable chi, was channeled to produce mega heads. It just fried them.
Eventually “the Aunts” decided what Dad needed was an authentic “English” garden and started ordering rose bushes from exotic catalogs. Every week UPS would deliver bare root shrubs with fancy names like Amethyst, Just Joey, Mint Julep, and Sterling Silver. Then they decided that he needed a brick pathway and a hideous fountain with the giant artichoke on top. Eventually the gentleman farmer’s field turned into a fragrant field of well over 300 roses, and his garden then became the family focus for garden parties, Scottish dances, weddings and funerals. Dad named it Tiraluin, the Gaelic word for “Beautiful Land”.
As friends and family die a rose is planted and labeled for them. Little brass badges that say, Mary Beatrix Stine, Paul Krol, Frances Baxter. Their ashes have been scattered into the soil under their rose and they continue to live and thrive in the garden they loved.
Tiraluin has continued to morph and change over the years. It’s not as flora-bountiful as it once was, but it still is where we all gather. The ugly fountain is gone and has been replaced with 2 ponds, one with Koi. A gazebo has appeared and wrought iron swing sits under the 30 year old redwood that my father planted from seed. And still fighting their way between the roses is the prolific garlic that Dad planted 35 years ago. The true Stinking Rose.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Focus: Latin for hearth; the dwelling place of Lares & Penates the Roman household gods who observed and protected and influenced all that happens with the boundaries of their location or function.
A friend once called me “the most focused person she’d ever known”, that I just dive in and dig in until I got it done. No matter what the “it” was. If it needed doing I’d do it. Need your garage or closet cleaned? Need your project managed skillfully on time and on budget? Need to manage up or out that nightmare employee? Call on me. No task too dirty for me. Queen of the multi-taskers. My brain was a constantly shuffling deck of cards and I could pull out the ace of any suit with my mind’s eye closed.
Then my focus narrowed into one prime objective; keeping Dad alive. Managing his day-to-day existence of daily living, of weekly doctor visits, hospitalizations, transfusions and infusions. I became expert in knowing his intimate medical details and could recite the litany of blood pressures, symptoms/aches/pains, calcium, magnesium, potassium, white blood cell counts and radiological findings from any given day, on queue. I’d stand by his bed in the ER and rattle off the details to round after round of interns, hospitalists, consultants, and specialists who’d come in. They all asked the same questions and never wrote down the answers for the next guy. No need to, the daughter’s got it all. Don’t bother pulling the medical records-I’ve got it all here in my head. Guaranteed accurate. The doctors would look at me agog and ask, “Did you go to medical school?” Nope. Just focused.
My prime objective has been changed and it’s almost like learning how to switch from driving a stick shift to an automatic transmission. I’m stuck at a stop sign staring at the floor, wondering what happened to the clutch. Now days I can’t seem to hone in on any thought or task longer than twenty minutes before I disconect myself and flit on to something else that distracts me. I was going to write my blog every day-wait a minute-I had that thought last December! What happened in the meantime, and what was I doing instead of writing? I find bits of my thoughts and intentions missing as if my brain has been given the once over by a military censor. Big fat black splotches inked over critical details to keep the enemy in the dark. Brain exhaustion. Processor overload.
All I can do is Keep Calm and Carry On.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Nan and I were playing backyard tourists 50 miles from my home, exploring the funky streets and alleyways of Chinatown and pretending I got a great deal haggling over a pair of binoculars that I later found cheaper on Amaon. While we were debating the medicinal value of dried ox testicles ($150/oz) , I was drawn out to the street by the tight rattling sound of Chinese drums (expected) and trombones (certainly not expected) in a weird cacophonic tune that sounded an awful lot like “Nearer My God to Thee”.
Slowly winding its way up Grant Avenue was a strange funeral procession-part Salvation Army, part New Orleans jazz band, leading a hearse and red mustang convertible displaying a huge picture of the recently passed on. Family and friends were walking behind throwing bits of paper, or Spirit money, into the crowd.
As the procession snaked through the throngs of people, everything stopped. I turned around and saw shop owners come out to the street, tourists stopped chatting on cell phones and window gawking, hats were removed and for a few minutes we all became mourners ourselves, respectfully acknowledging a stranger’s last mile.
When I got home I had to find out who or what this band was. This hodgepodge, almost pick up band, was a San Francisco staple for the dearly departed. Formed in 1911 and originally called the Cathay Chinese Boys Band, it played at almost every major event in the city; important funerals, Chinese New Years, the opening of the Golden Gate Bridge and the 1939 Worlds Fair. In the 1940s the San Francisco Musicians Union Local No.6, convinced the Chinatown mortuaries to hire union musicians to play for the funeral processions. As the mortuaries closed the local Chinese started taking their business over to Green Street Mortuary in Little Italy. The band became The Green Street Mortuary Band and continues to play hymns and dirges for more than 300 Chinatown funeral processions a year.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti wrote a great poem about them:
The Green Street Mortuary Marching Band
marches right down Green Street
and turns into Columbus Avenue
where all the café sitters at
the sidewalk café tables
sit talking and laughing
and looking right through it
as if it happened every day in
little old wooden North Beach San Francisco
but at the same time feeling thrilled
by the stirring sound of the gallant marching band
as if it were celebrating life and
never heard of death
And right behind it comes the open hearse
with the closed casket and the
big framed picture under glass propped up
showing the patriarch who
has just croaked
And now all seven members of
the Green Street Mortuary Marching Band
with the faded gold braid on their
beat-up captains' hats
raise their bent axes and
start blowing all more or less
out comes this Onward Christian Soldiers like
you heard it once upon a time only
much slower with a dead beat
And now you see all the relatives behind the
closed glass windows of the long black cars and
their faces are all shiny like they
been weeping with washcloths and
all super serious
like as if the bottom has just dropped out of
their private markets and
there's the widow all in weeds, and the sister with the
bent frame and the mad brother who never got through school
and Uncle Louie with the wig and there they all are assembled
together and facing each other maybe for the first time in a long
time but their masks and public faces are all in place as they face
outward behind the traveling corpse up ahead and oompah oompah
goes the band very slow with the trombones and the tuba
and the trumpets and the big bass drum and the corpse hears
nothing or everything and it's a glorious autumn day in old
North Beach if only he could have lived to see it Only we
wouldn't have had the band who half an hour later can be seen
straggling back silent along the sidewalks looking like hungover
brokendown Irish bartenders dying for a drink or a last hurrah....
If you’re dying to learn more about The Green Street Mortuary Band and other interesting death rituals, check out The Daily Undertaker at http://www.dailyundertaker.com/2008/11/green-street-mortuary-band.html
Thursday, December 2, 2010
In 1896 San Francisco opened the world’s largest glass and steel framed indoor swimming pool. Tucked away in a low beach inlet underneath the cliffs, Sutro Baths boasted 6 huge saltwater pools and 1 freshwater pool. The 2 million gallons of water were recirculated by the tides daily. At high tide the waves would come in and fill the saltwater pools in one hour; at low tide the water could be pumped in five. At 140 feet longer than a football field the baths were almost 500 feet long and 254 feet wide.
I remember driving by the Sutro Baths as a kid and listening to my parents talk about swimming in the heated pools when they were kids. I used to imagine what it was like in its heyday with ladies and gents decked out in neck to ankle swim wear, bobbing around in waves of the circulating pools and of kids screaming and sliding down the seven 50 foot Toboggan slides. They managed to survive the 1906 earthquake and fire, and generation after generation of San Franciscans spent their weekends picnicking on the grounds and splashing in the heated tides.
When I first saw them they had long been part of Play Land at the Beach, a huge arcade that was well into its decline into seediness. The beautiful beach had become one of the places nobody with any sense would dare venture into. Mysteriously, Play Land and Sutro Baths burned to the ground in 1966. I remember watching the fire on TV and wondering what the big deal was. I really didn’t understand the history that was disappearing.
The ruins of the Baths have survived, jutting up from the sand like giant graffiti covered Pompeii bunkers. It is a great place to view the ocean, bird watch and climb around the cliffs. The land is now part of the National Park Service, which also takes care of Fort Point, the Civil War era military fort at the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, a quarter of a mile away.
Check out the two films http://sutrobaths.com/explorebaths.shtml
taken by Thomas Edison in August 1897. I guarantee you’ll wish you were there.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
I became intrigued by a blog about Chinese Portraits today. It is an abstract artistic depiction of a person or personality by answering "If I were" questions. If I were a flower, if I were a word, a book, a motto, a work of art. It sounds a little like a weak amalgam of Proust’s Questionnaire, Bernard Pivot channeled by James Lipton, and a dash of the Miss America IQ test. The concept is interesting, especially with its polarizing potential to be deeply insightful or painfully moronic (Miss Universe).
I think it would be fun if, instead of writing our own Chinese Portraits, we had them painted by the people who know us well; or even better, by those who think they know us but really don’t. I think it would feel like sitting in the back row of your own funeral to hear what our friends really think about us.
This morning I got as far as writing two colors of my own portrait. I have no idea how many other colors it will take to paint a complete picture of me, but I’ve decided to keep a running list and add to it now and then.
If I were:
I would be the long painful squeek of an old spring on a wooden screen door. It has always been my favorite and most satisfying sound; better than the sound of Cheetos or bubble wrap. It’s the in and out of every day. Hurried departures and tired and deliberate entrances. There is something organically satisfying in that squeeeek as the spring stretches and complains and then the loud bang of the door against the jamb, the short recoil and repeat.
I would be Impatience. The hurry up and get on with it kind. The come on what’s you point? voice screaming in my head when I’m trying so hard to listen to what you have to say but I’m actually mentally editing out 50% of your verbiage because you use more words than are really necessary to get to the god damn point!
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
2 May 1915
Major John McCrae
I’m thinking of my father today: This Remembrance Day, this Armistice Day, this Veterans Day. This day that was set aside in 1918 to memorialize the end of World War I. The Great War. The War To End All Wars. Now this is the day we remember those soldiers who are no longer with us from all the wars
Every year on the Sunday before the 11th of November my father and I would attend Remebrance Day services at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco. Veterans from US, British, Canadian and Australian regiments come to the cathedral and lay a wreath of peace at the alter.
At the end of the service the beautiful poem, In Flanders Fields is read and a shower of red poppies float down from the vaulted cathedral onto the people below. The poppies are a symbol of Remembrance Day because they represent the thousands of poppies that grew over the mass graves and torn up battlefield in Flanders in World War I.
Last year was the last service we attended together. At 91, he was one of the oldest veterans in attendance. This year I just couldn’t go without him.
Today, on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month I will be thinking of my father.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
I went back home yesterday. Again. As a kid I couldn't wait to get out of my small town. Away from everything small town about it. I didn't get that far away, either physically or emotionally. Now I find myself drawn back to my old friends and old neighborhood more and more. To the pot hole pocked concrete and asphalt streets that have shifted and shimmied with daily earthquakes and to the sky there that is bluer and clearer than anywhere I have ever been. We ride our old fogey bikes and talk about who lived where and how come everything looks smaller than it should.
My old house is long gone. Burned to the ground when the new family who moved into it ignored our warning and built a fire in the 100 year old earthquake damaged fireplace. A fabulous old farm house with stables in the back. A two block walk to downtown. Now there is a hideous duplex on the lot; a jarring reminder that few people preserve anymore.
I walked to the corner and looked up at the street sign. Fifth and West. The sign was newish and green but it was in the same spot where I stood with my Dad over 50 years ago, looking up at the sky for a glimpse of Sputnik. He said we saw it but it looked nothing like Captain Satellite's space ship to me, so I just took his word for it. Every lunar or solar eclipse we'd stand on the corner under the sign that said Fifth and West and look up into that clear sky.
I spent a lot of time looking up yesterday. Looking up at that beautiful blue sky peeking through the leaves of the same trees I saw as a child. I was looking through older eyes but the view was exactly as I remembered it and I pretended that no time had passed.