Kerfuffle

I'm going to miss my "not-exactly-mother-in-law." Remembering Eileen Wright.

This morning I drafted the obituary for Eileen Wright.  I don't normally write such things, but Eileen was my partner's mother.  I sometimes called her my mother-in-law, but that's not exactly accurate since the people of Wisconsin still have a bug up their collective behind regarding same-sex marriage.

Tough.  Eileen was my mother-in-law.  That term -- mother-in-law -- has so much negative baggage and comedic currency.  The stereotype, repeated in sitcoms, novels, movies and jokes, is well known.  Yet to have known Eileen is to know how very wrong mother-in-law stereotypes often are.

Eileen was wonderful.  In a lot of ways she was my surrogate mom, in that my own mother has been gone for almost 30 years.  Even my sister, who shares Eileen's August 28th birthday, felt that way about her.  It's not hyperbole to say that she was an amazing woman, a great mother, and frankly just a riot to be around.

The first time I met Eileen, it was to spend Christmas Eve with Tom and his parents at his apartment.  We'd only been dating a few months and I was so nervous I brought my sister with me... and made her go up the stairs first.  I mean, you know how it is... I thought Tom was "The One" from the minute I met him, and now I had to meet his mother?  All that worry for nothing.  She immediately put me at ease, and proved to be warm, wonderful and accepting from the get-go.  From that early point, I considered her to be a good friend.

More than a few times I told Tom -- and Eileen -- that had my mother still been alive, she and Eileen together would have been trouble.  Both had larger than life personalities, loved to be surrounded by friends, loved a good joke, and enjoyed cocktail hour. 

I have all these stories whirling around in my head right now about Eileen.  How she could make Christmas explode into whatever house she was in on that holiday.  How she was not above ripping a piece off an angel food cake and throwing it across the room at someone.  How she could venture out and discover fields of her prized morel mushrooms year after year when I have never found a single one.  How she thought she was fooling us sneaking cigarettes in our upstairs bathroom.  How she left to drive alone to Florida a day ahead of schedule so she could keep her kids from having someone ride down with her.  How she loved that we named our miniature donkey "Gigger," her childhood nickname.  How she would do anything for her kids. How she loved to sing... knowing she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.

Fact is, she was never expected to live this long... or even into her teens.  She had Rheumatic fever as a child, and back then it was considered a death sentence.  I guess it still was, in as much as her death can be mostly attributed to damage to her heart valves caused by the fever all those years ago.  But that's Eileen... she took a good long time to negotiate her departure.

Now she's gone.  In some ways, it was an extended goodbye.  Eileen had a major stroke about three months ago.  She regained mobility but communication was difficult.  That didn't stop her from making her views known... including that she did not want extraordinary measures taken to keep her alive.  And so that's how it went.  She stopped the meds, and spent the last month in her home, kept company day and night by a family member.  Yesterday was her 77th birthday, and all of her children and grandchildren were with her.

A devoted Catholic all her life, she had made peace with her God, and she was ready to go be with Bruce, her husband of 51 years who passed away in 2008.

Those of us who knew and loved this wonderful woman plan on raising a toast to her tonight at 6pm CDT.  Join us.

Cheers, Eileen.  I love you so much.  Godspeed.

It all started with my wish for a "diver's watch" for my 11th birthday...

I'm not entirely sure what led to my desire to have an over-sized black-faced watch with a rubber wrist band.  Perhaps it was that this high school neighbor kid (that in hindsight I kind of crushed on) had one.  Or that it just looked cool.  All I really know for sure is that I had a little kid's Timex and I wanted something more, I don't know, adult.

My parents didn't disappoint.  On August 11th, 1970, they gave me this Caravelle diver's watch, just like I had wished for.  I was ecstatic.  It was so cool, and it was exactly what I pictured when I asked for one.  It's a wind-up, and I only bring it out on my birthday.  And goddamn if the thing doesn't still keep perfect time after all these years.

It's scratched, the band is pretty worn, and overall it looks kind of tired.  No matter.  This watch, $39 at the time, has held up.  I wore it every day all the way through college.  It shows up in family and yearbook photos.  It's probably the most treasured thing I have from my childhood.  The local jeweler here tells me that the Caravelle brand is still made by Bulova, and that he can restore it if I want him to.  I don't.  I like it just the way it is.

Of course, there is a dark side to this story.  This watch became the first of well over a few hundred watches I have owned since that time.  I have a kind of watch obsession.  A compulsion.  An addiction.  Whatever you want to call it, I have a shitload of watches.  I usually wear a different one each day.  Some, over time, have been pitched or packed away.  But the current rotation has maybe 50 that all work and are all pretty cool in there own way.  Tom thinks I'm nuts, but I just like watches.  Cheap ones.  Gaudy ones.  Precise ones.  Just about everything except for over the top expensive ones.  No need.  There are so many reasonably priced cool watches that the gold Tiffany watch I received as an award at work 20 years ago never comes out of it's box.

So, yeah.  Today's my birthday.  If you are still trying to decide what to buy me, you can't go wrong with a watch.

The parenting role-reversal: Looking after Dad

The day when I have to fully take over my Dad's affairs is not here yet, but I can see it coming around the bend.

Dad has lived alone since about two years after my mother died in 1982.  About a year ago, we started to notice things.  For the first time any of us could recall, my Dad was forgetting things.  Not the "where are my damn car keys" stuff, but standing appointments, day of the week, and items from conversations just the day before.  He would at times get easily confused.  My partner Tom, a psychiatrist, said it could be adult onset dementia.  Didn't seem to be Alzheimer's.  Conversations with Dad's friends and neighbors confirmed the forgetfulness.  It seemed to have begun shortly after his best friend died unexpectedly.  Dad was very close to his pal Bob, a man 20 years younger.  When news of Bob's heart attack and death in Florida reached Dad, he was devastated.  Only months later did we begin to realize the full effect of Bob's passing.

Last fall, we began to gently suggest assisted living.  My sister Karen, who lives just a few miles from Dad, patiently nudged him to go visit some places.  "They're all full of old people!  I don't want to live with old people!"  Needless to say, it was going to be a long campaign.

We decided to break it down.  First we frequently pointed out that where he lives, Douglas, Michigan, is difficult at best in the winter.  They get a lot of lake effect snow, often measured in feet instead of inches.  That didn't used to bother Dad, but his legitimate fear of falling or skidding off the road kept him in his condo for days at a time.  Douglas being a summer resort town, many of his neighbors were gone for the winter.  He began to agree with us that another winter might not be wise.

Once he was comfortable thinking that he shouldn't live alone in the winter another year, we nudged him along to choose a place.  He didn't like our suggestions, and ultimately found a place he liked, felt he could afford, and that was still very close to my sister and his friends.  He agonized over committing, because he didn't know what he would do with all his stuff, how he would move, how much it would cost, and so on.  No matter how much assurance we'd all give that it would all be taken care of, he still worried and bitched about the whole idea of moving.  To our surprise, one day he just went to the place and put down a deposit.

And then the worrying really started.  Jesus God this man could work himself up.  I finally wrote everything out -- every detail, every plan, every date, every cost -- in a three-ring binder so he could look it up rather than call me and ask, for the umteenth time, what day the movers were coming.  As the date got closer, my brother, sister and I all spent time with him, packing things, sorting stuff out, and sneaking junk out to the trash.  The move itself was almost anticlimactic.  It went off without a hitch, and his place was all set up within hours.  Tom went as far as to replicate his old bedroom right down to where the pictures were hung in the new place.

Dad's been at the new place for a little over two weeks now.  He says he likes it.  Sort of.  They provide one meal, a dinner at noon.  His place has a full kitchen so he can fix breakfast and supper himself.  He's tried out the shuttle trips to the farmers' market and the grocery store.  He's charming the old ladies as only a gay man can.  Meanwhile, he still makes remarks about how everyone is so old, even though he's 83 and shuffles around just like his neighbors.  All in all, he knows this was the right thing to do, but he's still somewhat depressed about it.

Our next big step came last weekend.  Almost to my surprise, he let me take over his regular checking account.  He'd messed it up a few times recently, and so I got myself added to it and took it online.  It's not all that complicated, but for whatever reason he still worries about it to the point of near obsession.  For years he had the same routine.  Now there were auto-debits for his rent and insurance, and other things that required moving money around each month.  Dad's not computer literate (by his own choice), so what would take him a trip to the bank takes a minute with the laptop for me.  He agreed the plan made sense.  I expected a fight but he just gave in and handed me the checkbook.  (Well, OK, actually I had already pocketed it.  But he did give it back when I handed it to him.)  I know it had to have been hard for him.  Essentially, for the first time in maybe 65 years or so, he is no longer in control of his day to day finances.

Next up:  the car.  Yes, he is still driving.  I wish he wasn't. He knows we hope he'll stop and sell the car.  My brother offered him upper end Blue Book for it to give to my niece.  But the car represents his last claim of independence and self-sufficiency.  Granted, he may still be OK to drive.  I almost ran a red light I didn't see while driving with him Saturday.  "Red light" he said calmly but in time for me to safely stop... just like he did when he taught me to drive.  He never yelled or let loose with blood-curdling scream the way my mother did.  I digress.  But I still really worry, not only for him but for every other person on the roads of Holland, Michigan when he's out there behind the wheel.

Dad's at that point now where, I finally learned, he wants us to tell him what he should do... needs to do.  He doesn't come right out and say it, but that's what he wants.  Almost in a businesslike manner, if we make a proposal and show him why it makes sense, he'll agree.  I'm only sorry it took me as long as it did to figure that out.  Just like when I was a very young man and would seek his advice, what I really wanted was for him to tell me what to do.  Now, he's wanting that from me. 

Funny thing:  I think my brother, sister and I have actually grown closer over "What about Dad?" in the past year.  We've worked together, along with a lot of help from our spouses, to make things work out as best as possible.  I'm glad for that renewed relationship.  And I am glad I am around to look after my Dad.

I'll have to remember that feeling the next time he calls me to ask why the hell I have his checkbook.  Which will probably be in a few days if not tomorrow.

Eleven things I learned after spending a week with my side of the family

1. My niece Megan is one of the coolest people I know, and I need to find ways to see her more often.
2. Sitting in a comfy chair drinking martinis with my father is something I wish I did more often when I lived closer to him.
3. My dad is starting to repeat himself. 
4. My sister knows the best way to make me happy is to have a cold six-er of Bell's Amber Ale in her refrigerator.
5. My dad has a ton of really interesting stories about his youth that I never heard before, mostly because I never asked. Who knew Grandma Rose would occasionally tap into Popo's liquor cabinet and pass out on the couch?
6. My 19 year old nephew apparently thinks a daily shower is optional; one every three or four days is enough.  He's wrong.
7. My dad is getting kind of forgetful. 
8. Adopted strays make the best pets, as evidenced by my brother's dog Nellie and my sister's cat Edith.
9. My sister-in-law Lisa is the unsung hero of our family.
10. My brother's hair is probably 90% gray now, and he's only 2 and 1/2 years older than me.  Mine's only a little gray at the temples.  Suck it, Bob!  Hahahahahahahaha!
11. My dad is starting to get forgetful and repeat himself. 

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.