No “Joy of Sax”

During my two most  recent visits to The Park, i made a  concerted* effort to locate the missing tenor saxophone that Dad’s mother bought for him as a child.  It is a large instrument, with a case that is at least 4′ x 2′.  Beyond just cluttered, Mom’s house is small.  There are only so many places it could be – none of which bore instrumental fruit.  i (sadly) remain convinced that it’s ‘wandered off’ and been sold…

i sent an e-mail to the rest of the clan when i realized it was gone, letting them know that the sax was MIA.  At the same time, i put out an all points bulletin for two other missing instruments.  First, the alto sax that my sister, T, played in high school – that i’d fixed up for The Girl, hoping she’d follow the path of Lisa Simpson.  Second, the flute that i’d bought for The Girl when she made it clear that she would not be following in Lisa’s footsteps.  Both of these items had been delivered to my niece, DQ, for potential use by her daughter, DQ, Jr. 

No leads from anyone regarding Dad’s saxophone – just protestations along the lines of  “It has to be there” and “None of us would take it” from my oldest sister, S.  The alto was located, as was my flute.  This was as a result of some mildly annoying exchanges with S.  She has both instruments and is “using” them.  This means displaying them in her basement, alongside an old Casio keyboard, some lame-assed print with musical notes on it, and calling this her “music nook”.  (sigh)  That’s not using them.  That’s decorating badly with them.  But i told her i was happy to know the flute was still accounted for and would like it back someday.  Disposition of the alto sax was between her and my sister, T….

i’m generally not much on “things”.  It’s just stuff.  But musical instruments aren’t quite in the category of “stuff”.  Despite the fact that the first guitar i bought has imploded – i paid a whoppin’ $70 for this 3/4 size classical guitar in 1975 – the neck is cracked, keys broken and it’s not repairable.  But i can’t (yet) bring myself to get rid of it.  There is something deeply intimate about an instrument**.

You hold it in your arms.  You work together, learning nuances of touch and response.  The relationship can deepen over time, or lose fire – much like relationships with humans.  Another instrument comes along and the old one can be displaced.  Cast aside, perhaps temporarily, perhaps not…

The idea of displaying perfectly good instruments for no purpose other than to fill space in an unused corner of a basement causes an involuntary eye roll.  So it’s with that thought that i’m hoping Dad’s tenor sax has, in fact, been spared this fate.  If it found it’s way into a pawn shop, perhaps someone wanted it.  Someone bought it.  And i can only hope it’s helping some other young soul earn money for rent while he beats his way forward in life…

Gene Ammons, tearin' it up.

* oh sometimes, i’m just such a card… “concerted”?  *cackle*

**NOT a euphemism, you perverts…

Pinning Points

Every November, i have the same argument: “Put up the damn Christmas tree!”  This is followed immediately by “What’s the point?”  Sometimes, i have this argument out loud.  By myself.  For several minutes… Because it amuses me.

Never one to go overboard with decorating, i’ve always kept the holiday stuff at a reasonable level. Never put out more than i could take down on a cold, January afternoon. As the kids grew, there were a few standards they wanted to see – the “mouse countdown” calendar, Santa’s Marching Band, and of course, the random collection of weird shit on our tree. 

The other family tradition?  Once the tree is assembled and decorated, we must stand beside it and say “It’s the most beautiful Christmas tree ever.  Just like last year…”  The kids often delivered this line in monotone, with corresponding eye-roll. 

The tree itself? For the past 15 years, it’s usually been the same artificial tree – assembled branch by branch. It looks good, but never as nice as the real ones we’ve murdered purchased from time to time.  And it seems that i am always near tears when i’m putting it up, or taking it down. 

So why the fuck do i do this?

Holidays provide easy “pinning points” in our lives.  i mean, you don’t sit there on some random May 15th and say “damn, i remember May 15th from four years ago…”.  It just doesn’t work that way.  So when that damn tree is put up, or comes down, i am overcome by memories of over two decades of tree assembly or deconstruction.  And all of the emotions that were present at the time.

Every year i tell myself “Fuck it.  Don’t do it.”  But i give in… and it usually feels right after it’s up.  Sometimes i tell myself it’s for the kids.  Although they say it doesn’t matter whether there’s a tree or not, i suspect it represents a pinning point for them as well.  Sometimes it’s just because i’m not ready to become one of those people who drags out a small, fiber optic tree and says “Voila!”  That’s so my Mother…

This morning.  Removing the ornaments.  Smiling at the goofy shit* we’ve had on the tree for years.  Groaning at the hideously ugly** ornaments Mom has given me – which i dutifully place on the back of the tree.  Branch by branch.  Moment by moment.  Year after year.  Stuffing the scratchy synthetic wires into the large cardboard box that will sit unnoticed on a shelf in my garage for the next 11 months.  Carefully taped shut to keep out spiders.

Remembering the tree assembly from 2006.  Knowing at the time it would be the last holiday we would be spending together as a foursome – a pseudo-family***.  Having a ridiculous fever of unknown origin**** but plugging through it anyway…  The Girl was sailing through Europe during her Semester at Sea.  The Boy and his girlfriend lending me a hand as i wheeled around the tree in a rolling desk chair to conserve energy…

Flashing forward to an unknown future.  Knowing that choices i’ve made in my personal life are far-reaching.  And will bring moments of darkness, along with the freedom i crave.  Letting this knowledge wash over me like a scalding shower.  Branch by branch.  Moment by moment.  Blasting through year after year.  Tossing aside the idea of getting a gigantic 12′ pre-lit artificial tree for next year.  It wouldn’t be the same…

Pinning points.  Our lives woven around them.  Sometimes a beautiful tapestry.  Sometimes ragged, uneven web…

image sourced from:  http://www.zastavki.com

* the traditional first ornament is a miniature 6-pack of beer.  we’ve got an alien spaceship, painted pine cones, holographic glasses… silliness abounds…

** she gives each of us two gold-plated “collector” ornaments each year.  Some of them are hideous – including the gold-plated mini-van.  Seriously.  A mini-van?  it’s like the people who have to come up with new ornaments for the series are sitting around saying “Holy Fuck.  We’re out of Christmas shit.  Let’s start doing cars…”.

*** Our divorce was final in August of 2006, but it was quite amicable.  We agreed to spend that holiday together to soften the transition.  The Girl was 20, and The Boy was 17…

**** At the time, the doc thought it might be malaria (after a meet-up with The Girl in Vietnam and Cambodia).  It was only mono that i contracted in the Cambodian jungle, but i didn’t get that diagnosis until early December.  Around the time i was diagnosed with breast cancer…  Sucky month, eh?

Eighty Five Years Ago Today…

Happy Birthday, Dad.  August 30, 1923.  Oddly enough, during my visit to The Park Friday to take Mom to see an estate planning attorney, she gave me a box of “stuff” from her recent excavations.  Among dusty story books i wrote when i was 9 years old, my Girl Scout uniform and the linens Dad’s mother made for her marriage bed?  Dad’s last drivers license and the ID card for his years teaching at the applied technology college… 

Rather than try to write something meaningful – while i remain up to my nipples in boxes and crates – i’ve dusted off the eulogy i gave at Dad’s funeral.  Not my best work – done in an overnight frenzy while i was frantically assembling illegally downloaded tunes for the visitation and service… The best words?  They are his… i had the first two rough chapters his own memoirs as a guide…

April 21, 2001 – In a Methodist church filled with about 150 thoughtful humans…

Sorry. It won’t happen again…

Mom and Dad were planning an Alaskan cruise with a group of friends from their church when he was diagnosed with cancer in 1998.  With a departure date scheduled for just a month post-surgery, they canceled their plans. 

As his condition leveled out over the next few months, Dad settled into chemotherapy treatments every other week, and Mom assumed her role of primary caregiver.  The prognosis wasn’t great, but he’d made the decision to pursue non-heroic treatment for the near term… and was hanging in for his final year or so.

When the daily routine returned to something resembling “normal”, Mom would occasionally mention the trip, expressing her disappointment that their plans were scuttled by Dad’s illness.  Dad wouldn’t say a word as she would tell anyone within earshot “We were booked on that Alaskan cruise but had to cancel when Dad got sick…”

He apparently hit his limit one day when he quietly responded “I’m really sorry I got cancer and screwed up your vacation”.

She didn’t mention it again, at least not in front of me, until a few weeks after he died.

Finding my groove

It was a gorgeous spring day on my last trip to The Park to take Mom to visit the surgeon – a momentary break in the monsoon allowed the sun to appear, bringing overdue warmth.  As part of our “doctors appointment” ritual, i always walk through the house when i drop her off, performing an assortment of tasks that need doing* – everything from changing light bulbs, to taking out the trash, to reviewing insurance paperwork and writing down the medical info du jour. 

Last week, she asked if i could take a look on the back porch to see what needed doing to get it ready for summer.  A concrete patio, with a small raised deck for flowers, all covered by a corrugated aluminum awning, it’s not a “Home and Garden” showplace.  Just a place for fresh air – away from the stale, “three pack a day” air inside the house.

Two conversations with my father…

On the drive back from The Park last Friday, i was tired.  I’d been up late the night before at an awkward dinner event, then up before dawn in order to pick up Mom in time to make an 8:45 am appointment with the cardiologist.  Events of the morning were exhausting, but i was still facing an afternoon in the office after an hour-long drive.

After leaving Mom’s house, i had a powerful urge to visit my father’s grave – but i had an afternoon meeting, and couldn’t take the time.  Instead, i just had a chat with him in the car.  Something i’ve done before…  Typically the conversations start with “I’m trying… ” or “I’m really sorry…”.

Last Friday it was “Holy Fucking Shit!”*

A little background is in order.  While Dad was dying, we had time to talk.  No, not the actual “moment of death”**, but the four months leading up to his death.  There were several lengthy hospitalizations, and i spent many hours in his room, reading the paper while he slept, providing basic care, talking to doctors and nurses, or chatting when he was in the mood to talk.

During one of these conversations, we discussed his concerns about the inhabitants of The Park after he died.  When i was about 30 years old, prior to a trip to Europe, my parents made me executor of their estate.  I’m the youngest of four, but it had become clear that i was the only one with sufficient stability (not to mention CRZY MATH SKILZ) to handle the task.  During this particular conversation, Dad was pointing out that it was going to fall to me to look after the family when he was gone.

daisyfae:  But i’m the youngest!  It was in my contract that i’m supposed to skip through life responsibility-free!  i’m the carefree hippie…. the baby!

Dad:  Sorry.  You’re “Number One Son”.  You’re it…

daisyfae:  [sigh] Ok.  i promise i’ll look out for them…

And i have.  Well, at least i’ve tried.  Dad died in 2001.  The past 7 years have contained multiple moments of “you can’t be serious?” sprinkled with way too much “i could not possibly make this shit up”.  i haven’t even scratched the surface yet in my posts…

i have followed Kipling’s advice – “If you can keep your wits about you while all others are losing theirs, and blaming you” – to the best of my ability…

There is, however, a perfect storm brewing, and it’s testing the limits of my patience.  And my ability to keep the promise i made my Father.  As i spiral into menopause, no prospect of hormonal supplements because of that pesky breast cancer nugget last year, i have the potential to become highly nonlinear.  As the family faces “end of life” issues with Mom***, they have the potential to become highly nonlinear, not to mention, increasingly stupid.  Not a scenario for peace and harmony, that’s for sure….

Conjuring my Dad in the car that afternoon, i simply asked for a bit of clarification…

daisyfae:  Let’s take a look at that promise, shall we?  i said i’d “look out” for them.  Could that be interpreted as “Look out!  Here they come!”?

Dad:  [….]

__________

* It was Good Friday and all…

** Generally recognized as poor taste to talk about “stuff” when doctors are disconnecting life support, religious officials are attempting to officiate and the like.

*** Reference: The Lion King, Walt Disney Feature Animation, Mecchi & Roberts, 1994.

Ripples of divorce…

One of the unexpected issues encountered since the divorce relates to the awkward connection to former in-laws, who have been part of my life for over 25 years.  These are not the garish get-in-your-business, fart-on-your-couch, borrow-your-money, eat-all-your-food, stay-too-long-at-your-house kind of in-laws*, but the pleasant and thoughtful ones.  People you genuinely welcome into your life…

This morning, i received word that my former Mother-in-Law died.  A brief instant message from my former Sister-in-Law saying that “We lost Mom this morning.  E** was with her when it happened”.  At 89 years old, after a lifetime of serious heart trouble and a five year tussle with progressive dementia, she cashed in…

It’s too early to know details, but there will likely be a service this week.  i would genuinely like to “pay my respects”, hug these good folks, and wish them peace… it is not a sense of duty or obligation that drives my desire to attend. 

The awkwardness is in regard to E’s new girlfriend… He’s been involved with a woman for over a year but we’ve never crossed paths.  All i’ve got is basic intelligence from the kids, who say she’s very sweet, thoughtful*** and perhaps a little insecure about me – not fully comprehending the concept that divorce need not be messy. 

So i’ll plan to do a brief “hit and run”, sit in the back and all that good stuff.  I will give E advance notice, and let him know that i can bag the idea if it would cause him additional stress.

Maybe there are small, hidden benefits to a bitter and angry divorce?  When it’s done, you can replace the void with a nice dose of “good riddance”.  Instead of being caught off guard a couple years later by a sense of sorrow, failure and loss…

______________

* That would be the kind my ex-husband had to endure…

** E is my ex-husband.  He moved his parents in with him 5 years ago when they couldn’t manage on their own.  They welcomed the move to Ohio since they were pissed off that their votes hadn’t counted in the prior presidential election in Florida.  Oops…  E has his own consulting business, mostly working from home.  Although he has two sisters, he was in the best position to care for his parents – but it has been very difficult… 

*** Initial description was “Martha Stewart-y” – which would be about 180 degrees out of phase with daisyfae. 

Pardon me, have you seen my dreams?

I seem to have temporarily misplaced them.

At the cast party tonight, I had a chance to talk with the performers about things other than the show.  Most of them are in their early 20’s, and in college.

Most striking was the clarity with which they could articulate their dreams.  Their lives awaiting, they are just starting out.  Many of them expect to be working on stage, film or television – not stardom, necessarily, but expect to make a living in the performing arts.

Others?  A life of meaning as a counselor, guiding lost souls.  A beautiful young woman majoring in chemical engineering in order to develop “green” technologies – looking forward to a lifetime hobby in theater (hmmm…..).  Another is a youth theater program director – aspiring to grow the program through grants to do more community outreach for troubled youth.

There is nothing they aren’t willing to tackle.  No doors are closed.  Just like the tribe members they portray in the show, they expect to change the world.  Granted, many of them are comfortable taking a meandering path to get there, and are in no hurry to move out of their parents homes. That’s the Generation Y thing…. 

Got me thinking…

you’re never fully dressed…

When Dad died, I was surprised by the overwhelming number of minor decisions that had to be made – even though he had made his wishes known regarding the ‘big stuff’ (no life support, no heroic measures, no plastic flowers on his grave*…)

In the days before the funeral, family members dealt with different pieces of the puzzle – one of my jobs was to bring clothing to the funeral home.  Amidst a million other errands, i flew into the house, quickly went over the items Mom had prepared, then ran out to get the clothing to the funeral home by the requested delivery time.

Walking into the office at the funeral home, i was greeted by a receptionist – exhibiting the demeanor of a woman who had seen much and reacted to little.

And then it hit me.  I didn’t say “hello”, or “I’m bringing clothing for…” or anything else… The only word I could utter?

“Pants?”

The unruffled receptionist politely said “I beg your pardon?”

I whispered, in complete shock: “Pants!  I don’t have his pants…”

She remained calm, and said “We fully dress here…” **

Choking back a fit of the giggles, I held up a finger and managed to tell her “I’ll be right back”.

I raced back to the house, where Mom and my sister (and fellow refugee) T, were dealing with other issues.  Breathless, i ran inside, and stood before them in the dining room.  I asked the same question: “Pants?”

T turns immediately to Mom and blurts out “SEE!!!!  I told you he needs pants!  Nobody’s sending my ass out of this world without my fucking pants!”

And then came the stress giggles…

_________________

* Mom is a packrat.  One particularly annoying ‘collection’ is of cheap, dusty, faded and completely horrible plastic flowers.  My Dad hated these things – and one of the deathbed promises i made was to assure him that there would be no plastic flowers on his grave.  It’s a constant battle, but i’m tenacious…

** During preparations for my Grandmother’s funeral, i was surprised to learn that it was a local (Appalachian) custom to only dress the corpse from the waist up – since the casket would only be half-open during visitation.  Grandma was buried in her bloomers, pantyhose and the top half of a pantsuit.  I find many burial rituals bizarre and barbaric, but this one seemed particularly goofy.  I’ve often wondered if it somehow originated from depression-era frugality.  I have yet to find much documentation on this practice. 

Saturday Skinny Stoner Saga – the story of G

Because one person asked me to do it By popular demand, here’s another installment in the Saga of G, my oldest sister’s second husband.

Previously we learned that G revealed his interest in wearing his mothers clothing to my sister, S, about a week after they were married.  Rather than face another failed marriage, S, decided to stick it out.  Intrepid readers asked “if that didn’t get her out of the marriage, then what finally did?”

We’re not sure what really drove her to file the paperwork.  It was at least partially due the advice of her baby sister, who pointed out that if he got arrested for dealing weed out of the house, the local authorities could confiscate everything she owned – you know, one of those “it’s not violating the constitution  if we take away the rights of bad people” laws…

After the divorce, G went downhill quickly.  We learned that he was arrested for stealing angel figurines from graveyards.   Things escalated, and later that year learned that he was a fugitive from the law! [dramatic music goes here] Attempted Bank Robbery!