Kerfuffle

Of college libraries, cell phones, and feeling both old and young at the same time

Not that I didn't know this already, but I am fucking old.  All I need to do to be reminded of this is go to the UW Whitewater library on any given day.  There are constant reminders, all of them walking around, hunched over computers, and generally flaunting their youngness.  At times I actually have to actively concentrate on not overtly acting old.

Earlier today I was sitting at a table, trying to read a rather dry journal article that we would be discussing in class later in the evening.  A girl (I use that word rather than "woman" since at 49 I could easily be her father) answers her cell phone.  That happens a lot, but usually people make an effort to quickly end the call. Not this time.  She proceeded to go on and on, reading passages of a paper she was writing to the person on the phone.  I had to fight the urge to go tell her to shut up, all the while realizing that only a cranky old person would be bothered by this.  Looking around, no one else seemed to even take notice.  Of course, they all had headphones on... including the blabbermouth on the phone.  (That might explain why she was talking so loud.)  Whatever happened to the thing about being quiet in a library?

I got to thinking about this, after I relocated to a relatively quietly, more remote part of the library.  My god, I am turning into an old guy.  I'm getting all kinds of pissed of, albeit quietly, over a cell phone conversation.  Welcome to the 21st century.  People think nothing -- nothing -- of taking calls where ever and when ever they feel like doing so.  Most people, OK some people, make an attempt to respect others in close proximity, but for the most part cell phone yammering is just a part of life.

After class, I went back to the library.  Just as I had settled down and unpacked my stuff to study, my phone rang.  I was not going to take the call, of course, but I thought I'd look to see who it was.  Oh, shit; it's my dad.  My 82-year-old dad, and he is calling past 10pm his time.  I have to answer, if only to tell him I can't talk.  I hit the answer button and utter a barely-audible "hi."  David?  "I'm in the library, Dad; I can't talk now.  What?  David?  Now a little louder, and drawing a few looks, "Dad, I am in the school library.  I can't use my phone right now."  I can't hear you.  What?  (sigh) "Dad, is something wrong?  I'm going to have to call you back."  When? I have a dilemma.  "Nothing's wrong then?"  I thought you said you can't talk.  "I can't."  Well call me back in a few minutes.

So I pack up my shit and head for the exit.  As it turns out, the dilemma is that he is supposed to fly to North Carolina in the morning, but over in southwest Michigan they are getting a foot of lake effect snow.  His ride to the airport is stuck in Chicago, and no neighbor in his little retirement village is going to drive him to Grand Rapids to catch his flight.  Why the hell is he calling me... in Wisconsin... when my brother and sister both live within a half hour of him?  Fact is, he was calling because he didn't know what to do.  He said he wasn't sure he wanted to make this trip anyway, and has been thinking that for a week.  It's a trip he has made for the past ten years, flying to Raleigh and then driving down with old friends to spend Thanksgiving in Florida.  He just doesn't feel like going, and he's all worked up over it.  I talk him through his options, and he says he'd rather just stay home.  By the end of the 15 minutes on the phone, that's what he decides to do.

Having this conversation with my dad reminds me that while I may feel kind of old, he really is old.  He gets a little confused and forgetful, and he needs to call one of us, usually me, to help get things figured out.

So I turned out being one of those people who answered a call on my cell phone in the library.  Oddly, it made me feel kind of young.

Parents, digital cameras and homecoming dates

When I was a kid, my mom was the family photographer. Even when I became a camera nerd in high school, Mom did a pretty good job of documenting family events.  Or so I thought.

Tom and I were down in central Illinois over the weekend to suffer through the Cubs crushing defeat with family.  Turns out the highlight of the trip was that we arrived just as niece Danielle and her friends were assembling with their homecoming dates for pictures.  Other parents were there, digital cameras in hand, to help form what looked like a horde of paparazzi working a rope line at some movie premier. 

When I was in school, Mom brought out the Kodak Instamatic -- the kind that took 126 film that came in 12-exposure cartridges and used flashcubes -- and took two snapshots.  The second was "just to be sure." Sure of what I do not know.  But today's parents have 1GB memory cards, lithium batteries and the ability to know instantly if someone blinked.  (I think that must have been the "just to be sure thing.)  But they take dozens -- hundreds -- of pictures now.  And this photo shoot went on with these dozen kids for over an hour.  Crazy.

Of course, the upshot of all this is that in addition to that one perfect shot like the one of Danielle and (Greg maybe?) above, you get a lot like this one too:

 

The trans-generational value of a good fart joke

My dad was over from Michigan visiting us for the past week.  It was nice to see him over here, even if he does get on my nerves a little.  At age 82 (this Wednesday), he is a bit forgetful, and a little hard of hearing, and a little cantankerous.  But still, it's nice to be able to spend some time with him.

These days, we don't plan a whole lot for his visits.  He's happy for a change of scenery, the chance to talk about things and see what we've done with the place, and play around with the dogs and cats.  Our big event while he was here was a trip into Madison to take in a performance by the Madison Symphony.  He likes that kind of stuff, Tom loves it, and I tolerate it.

We also had a good time yelling at the television during the McCain - Obama debate.  My dad was a Republican and voted as such most of his life. These days, he hates Republicans, essentially thinking that George Bush is an idiot who, with his party, has trashed the United States.  He sees McCain as an "crazy old bastard" and is not shy about telling people so.  For my dad, who can be cranky and difficult, to cite McCain as a "kind of senile jackass" is really saying something.

Funny thing.  My dad and I talked about all kinds of things... family, old friends and neighbors, the trainwreck that is the economy, books, movies... a lot of stuff.  But the best laughs we had came when we ventured into the juvenile humor of farts, bowel movements, and crude sexual innuendo.  As it should be.  He may drive me nuts, but when we get to talking about the really low brow stuff like one cheek sneaks, the dog's ability to clear a room, and what a "dirty Sanchez" is, we can get to laughing like to nine year olds.  And I LOVE that about him.

Megan Wilcox, Drama Queen

The life of a fourteen year old high school girl is so complicated!  I mean, wow, all those things to do and places to be.  Not having a driver's license yet makes it all the more demanding.

I'm over in Michigan for my nephew Steven's high school graduation.  But, wow, you'd think this is all about Miss Megan!  She had to get a new dress and get her hair all done up for the occasion.  For her brother?  Hardly.  It's for the senior boys that are graduating and leaving her behind with those icky freshmen boys.  Yuck!  Apparently there's some guy named Jake (#21 in all the pictures) that will be especially missed.  ("He is NOT my boyfriend.  Mom wants him to be my fiance. Don't write that!")

Steven's just glad to get out of high school and be done with it.  Megan has three more years to crush and be a heart breaker.  What's that they say?  Youth is wasted on the young.

And Megan... you know I kid because I love.  Love to kid that is.  Oh, lighten up.

Just look at the time! I have to go.

I quit my job last week.

Unlike when I left OMD in 2003, which was a sort of negotiated departure with parting gifts, this time it was all my idea. That means no parting gifts, but some major happiness. For a variety of reasons, I haven't been all that satisfied at the agency for a while. But I have been really excited about about being in graduate school. Combine those two things and the solution is pretty clear: Beginning in the fall, I will be a full time student.

The last time I quit a job was when I was still in college. And I only quit then because I was moving into the real world. It's an odd feeling, a mix of anxiety and euphoria. It must be noted that this wouldn't be a possibility if not for the incredible support for the idea from my partner Tom. For him to consider and buy into this plan with all the things going on in his life right now is a testament to what an incredible person he is. He knows this is what I want to do, and that I really needed to make a break from the agency for it to work.

Why school? Simply because with an advanced degree, I hope to be able to teach at the college level. This idea has rattled around in my head for a few decades, ever since my dad did the same thing as the last chapter in his advertising career. He loved the ten years he spent teaching media and advertising at the University of North Carolina. It kept him involved in the industry he loved, allowed him to pay forward good things others had done for him early in his career, and went a long way toward making him feel relevant. It didn't hurt that he got to hang out with people a fraction of his age.

My plan is to stay attached to the agency at a reduced level into August, take a long vacation with Tom, and then hit the books hard. If I stay on program, I should have the degree in hand by the end of next summer. In addition to taking one class this summer, I plan on helping Tom's mother get settled in her new home, and take care of a lot of the other details for her as she adapts to life without her husband of 51 years. (See previous post.)

Is there more to this story than is showing up here? Maaaaaaybe. But that's more of a short story than a blog post, so it will have to wait for another time.

Kerfuffle lost its most loyal fan today

When I started Kerfuffle a little over a year ago, no one but me really read it. That was mostly because I never told anyone I was writing it. I just did it, partly for fun and partly to see if I could actually write enough stuff to keep it relevant and interesting. Some would say that's still under review, but these days it averages about 10 visits a day, half from some random search and the other half directly to the front page.

One of the very first people I told about it was Tom's dad and my de facto father-in-law, Bruce Wright. Bruce never once left a comment, but in conversation he would reference many posts which meant he was actually reading them. Some of them would warrant an e-mail commentary; others the occasional telephone reference. But he really did like stopping by here. I knew that well enough that some of the posts were written pretty much just for the two of us to enjoy.

Bruce passed away this morning, surrounded by his wife of 51 years and his four children. He had been fighting stage three lung cancer for about five months, and finally came to peace with things and decided it was time to let go. To know Bruce was to know he was a "do-er." (Tom is truly his father's son.) He would be up before the sun, crafting some new project, repairing something, or otherwise being active and productive. He is legendary for unique (and at times downright odd) solutions to incidental needs. This man would do more before breakfast than I do in a week.

One of Bruce's loves was tools and machines. He always had a workshop, and his stuff actually got used. When Eileen and he sold the big house on Lake Carroll and downsized, he still insisted on cutting his own grass... several times a week. When that wasn't enough, he'd drive the two hours each way to come up to our place, get out "Woodsie," the zero-turn mower he pretty much considered his, and happily mow all the tall grass out to the main road. In fact, the last time Bruce was at our house, last September, he came up to mow and then he and I went over to Heather's Rockdale Bar and Grill -- a favorite of his -- for cheeseburgers and pints of Capital Amber. The curly fries were not on the diet Eileen tried to get him to follow, nor was the cheeseburger. But, then, Eileen wasn't there and what she didn't know wouldn't hurt him, he told me with a wink. I'll treasure that memory.

Tom's down in Florida with his sisters and his mother. They're having an informal gathering of close friends down there before coming back to Illinois on Tuesday. So that we'd not each spend the day alone, I got together with two of Bruce's grand daughters for lunch today. While it involved a drive from here to Milwaukee to New Lenox (IL) and then back here again, it was worth it for the three of us to share some stories and just be together.

Tom didn't come out to his parents until after we met, so I was part of the coming out story. Bruce was accepting from the get-go, and told Tom that if anyone in the family had a problem with his being gay or having a same-sex partner, they'd have to deal with him. Others can only dream of such support. In a very short period of time, I was afforded all the status of the other brothers-in-law, and never for an instant felt anyting less than sincerely welcome. It was Bruce who set the tone. No wonder he became not only my dad-in-law of sorts, but a treasured friend as well.

While Bruce and I didn't have a huge amount in common, one thing we shared was an affection for a certain green bottle. His preferred version was all-business: Tanqueray on the rocks, nothing added. I'm more of an "up with some olives" kind of guy. But tonight, mine will be on the rocks, hold the garnish.

Farewell, my dear friend. I shall miss you more than these words can convey. Much more.

For better or for worse; in sickness and in health

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my mom on the 25th anniversary of her death. She passed away far too young, and left behind not only her young-adult children, but her husband of 26 years. Dad, now 81, has continued his life as a solo flight since then. I know at times he has been and still is lonely, and that he still misses his best friend. And while Dad was able to come out as a gay man after Mom died, I am pretty certain he would have stayed with her and been (sort of) happy to live out his days with the woman he married in 1956. That said, her premature passing left him the opportunity to live on as his true self. While he never had a serious relationship (as far as I know), he didn't have to go on hiding a secret he thought would be just devastating to her. (News flash, Dad: I think she knew. But that's another story for another time.)

By comparison, my partner Tom's folks have been married nearly 51 years, and have weathered all kinds of things, good and bad, over that time. Despite being in their late 70s, they are at times no different than a pair of young kids. While so many people their age resign themselves to being sedentary, waiting on the grim reaper, Bruce and Eileen will have none of that, thank you very much. Friends that switched themselves off the main line to the weed-covered siding of life were left behind. Did they let some bouts with cancer and heart problems over the years stop them? Hell, no. Maybe they slowed down briefly, but only because some doctor leaned on them. For this couple, life is a parade and they have always been marching in it, not sitting in a lawn chair watching it go by.

Sometimes fate can by cruel. Such is the case with Bruce and Eileen in the past few weeks. Both of them were diagnosed with lung cancer on the same day in the same hospital by the same doctor. They are both looking at chemotherapy beginning next week. Suffice to say this is really screwing up their standing tee times and dinner plans.

How unlikely is it that two people, husband and wife, would find themselves -- on the same damn day -- diagnosed with the same life-threatening disease? It seems so fucking unfair. But, as I reflect on this whole situation, there is another angle that occurs to me. Perhaps whatever ruling force in our collective lives (insert your supreme being here) decided that, like the other adversities in their lives, they are best suited to deal with this menace together. They make a great team, and have overcome a lot of other obstacles together over the years. The way they play off of one another and support each other is pretty good medicine. As a duo, they are a force to be reckoned with.

Eileen had already been admitted a few days earlier when Bruce was brought to the hospital. I thought it was so wonderfully him to play the "my wife and I both got diagnosed with cancer on the same day" card so that admitting would get them adjoining rooms. I mean, how many times do you get the chance to toss that hand on the table? (Turned out even better; they got a double private room. Those poor nurses.) Meanwhile, Eileen noted that had this happened a month earlier, they would have had by far the most morbid Christmas letter, trumping anything else that went on and on about gout or the knee replacement or whatever. Laughs even through tears... that's them alright.

With all the difficulty in learning about their conditions, listening to all kinds of medical speak, and having to be stuck in the hospital, they did find ways to make their own fun. If you've ever had pneumonia or had major abdominal surgery, you know about those little tubes you blow into to excercise your lungs and diaphragm. Since Bruce and Eileen were side by side in the hospital, and both had to use one of these little things like the one pictured here, why not make it a competition? I'm not entirely sure who won. I have a feeling it kept going back and forth. "OK, best two two out of three. Best five out of nine. Damn it. Best 26 out of 50."

I'll be seeing them next week, and I know that I will be in major trouble by that time if they see the pictures below. I'm putting them in anyway (and thus sharing the blame with their youngest daughter, Andrea, who so kindly provided them. We're in this together, Andi!). I wish I could have heard the laughter from both the participants and the onlookers at this little competition. I know no one looks good in a picture taken of them when they are in the hospital. But to know these two is to love them. And I sure know them. And I sure do love them. Lots.

More than half my life ago...

Twenty five years ago this very day, my mother died. She was diagnosed with a pretty aggressive cancer in July of 1982. She knew her time was short, so she set a goal: make it to Christmas. And she did, with a few hours to spare. She left us at about 3am on December 26th, 1982. She was 52. I was 23. Now, I am 48, and she's been gone for more than half of my life.

It's weird. I know I would instantly recognize her voice if I was to hear it. But I can't make myself remember what it sounded like. And while I don't think of her every day... or even every week... anymore, she still makes the occasional celebrity guest appearance in a dream. Sometimes those dreams are in a totally whacked context; other times they are just some kind of mundane flashback. But I'm always glad to see her when she drops by.

My brother, who lives a few states away, is the keeper of the family photo archives. I used to pour over those albums she meticulously assembled when I was a kid. A the time, the pictures were not too many years older than I was. I haven't flipped through them in a long time, but I can still conjure up the images of vacations to Disneyland and first days of school pretty clearly. But I can't remember what her voice sounded like. Damn it.

My mom loved all three of us equally, even though we were so very different from one another. She seemed very careful to have a unique relationship with each of us, though, and I have some pretty cool memories of things that were special between just her and me. We made a trip, just the two of us, to see her mother in a nursing home in San Diego three consecutive Octobers, 1971, 1972 and 1973. We flew first class and stayed in La Jolla at what was probably her favorite hotel. We went to Disneyland on each of those trips, and stopped by to see her aunt and uncle. I think some boys in their early teens would have hated to do something like that with their moms. Not me. I loved it. She was as much a friend as she was a mom. She never liked that my college fraternity had a dad's weekend but no mom's weekend. I can say with absolute certainty that while my dad was a lightweight when it came to cocktailing with the Sig Ep brothers, my mom would have been right there clamoring for one more at bar time. One of my best childhood pals who was also my college room mate for two years still insists that if she had lived just a few more years, we could have convinced her to try a few bongs with us. He's probably right.

I supposed I could feel cheated in some way for not having had more years with my mother. And I did feel that way for several years after she died. But, in truth, she was the one who was cheated. She has two grandchildren who she never got to see. All three of her kids have gone through good times that she should have been there to share. And all three of us have struggled through dark times that I know she would have made a little lighter. She didn't see her one married child's wedding, not get to know his wife. I never got to tell her that I was gay but still totally happy. (She knew, but never said anything.) She never got to meet and get to know my partner. She didn't get to see her daughter put her life together. She never got to see the Cubs win a World Series. OK, well neither did anyone else born in the last 100 years, so strike that.

While I'm certainly not one for organized religion of any kind, I do consider myself to be a spiritual person. I have to think there is some higher power that gave us the earth and sky, the oceans and the stars, single malt scotch and cheesecake. So hopefully there is some kind of great beyond, some home for the departed, that allows them to see what's what with the earthly. So maybe she didn't get totally cheated; just was relegated to silent observer.

I miss her. A lot. But I'm sure glad I had 23 years with her, and I consider myself lucky to have a mom who loved me unconditionally and taught me how to be a good person. I'd share a picture of her with you, but I don't have a single one digitized. I need to work on that. So instead, I'll show you that favorite hotel I mentioned. It's known as The Inn at La Jolla Shores (I think) these days, but it will always be the Sea Lodge to me.

Kids are great, especially when they're not kids anymore

Those who have known me for a while know this: I'm not child-friendly. I mean, sure, I can make nice with the little tykes for a few minutes. But I'm not really a fan of the youngsters. Sure, they're cute. I guess. That's what I've been told by people who gave birth to them anyway. (Babies are, um, kinda ugly in my not-so-humble opinion. And, ugh, diapers. Eeeyuck. But that's another diary.)

Years ago, I used to stress big-time when my brother's kids and Tom's sisters' kids would come to visit. This was especially the case if they ALL came to visit at once. We had a weekend place in Michigan, and the big family events were never a favorite time for me. Clearly, I owned that problem. In reality, the kids were always great. And I love my nieces and nephews, both from my side of the family and Tom's. But I was always happy to see them leave.

That is so NOT the case now. The youngest of the nieces and nephews is Megan, my brother and Lisa's daughter. She's 13 (I think). The oldest is Jake, who is 20. And they all totally rock. I love talking to them, goofing with them, and just spending time with them. Four of the seven are at our place for Thanksgiving this year. Zack, a sophomore at Calvin College, gets the prize for longest distance traveled... from Grand Rapids, Michigan. (Eight hours on a bus to Bloomington, Illinois. This was followed by about four hours in the car to come up to Madison.)

So, among the things I am thankful for this Thanksgiving are Jake, Zack, Steven, Aubrie, Danielle, Emily and Megan. But even more so, to their parents for raising them, mostly away from me. I feel very lucky to be a part of their lives.

Bob and Reba, together again

I always got a kick out of telling people my brother was a roadie for big rock groups. The term "roadie" has sort of negative stereotypical connotations, so I kind of stopped using it about the time he got married and his per diem stopped going up his nose. That was a really long time ago.

He's self-taught at being a highly sought-after concert audio specialist. He started out in 1979 working for a handful of local (not really even regional) acts that played mostly Iowa and Illinois. A few times, he was on one side of the bar mixing sound and I was on the other mixing drinks at a long-gone place called "So's Your Mother" in Des Moines. He eventually started working for bands like Jefferson Starship, REO Speedwagon, Kiss and too many others to remember. I got very used to being able to get back stage passes... even for bands I didn't especilly like. Yep, I was a poseur. Totally didn't belong, geeky looking nerd in a polo short standing backstage with leather clad hangers-on. But who cares. It was fun.

These days, Bob is pretty selective about going out on tour. He works part time for his local school district, running their performing arts center and other techie stuff. The grind is to much when you hit 50. That's right, Bob. You're FIFTY. HAHAHAHAHA!. (Apologies for the outburst. I'm 48 myself. But no matter how old I am, he'll always be older. Deal with it Bob!)

He's cut a sweet deal with Reba McEntire in the recent months. He worked for her a few years in the 90s. He missed the road, and liked her organization. These days, she goes out and does a few shows. Comes back for a few weeks. Then maybe a few more shows. She runs a limited schedule right now. No more "If it's Tuesday, this must be Omaha" grind of a schedule. And I say, good for him. He gets to do what he loves, but not so much of it that it becomes a pain in the ass both figuratively and literally.

The local paper where he lives in Michigan wrote a nice little profile of him this week, which can be read here.

If he ever reads my blog, then he'll know that I am again publicly making fun of him being FIFTY. Like he even cares. But he'll also know that I'm pretty proud of him. You know how it is with brothers. I couldn't ever really say that to his face... that I'm proud of him. Unless maybe if I am buttering him up for some free passes to something. That's what blogs are for.