Birthdays & Funerals & Weddings, Oh My!

Over the last month or so, my father turned 88, a good friend died far too young, and my stepsister treated family and friends to a wedding spectacle that nobody will soon forget no matter how much they’d like to. 

The birthday ranks as the least exceptional of the three events (other than the achievement of another year added to so many) so will remain undescribed. Nor will I discuss the circumstances of my friend who died, except to say he was a remarkable individual, and that his death was a profound blow for those who knew and loved him.

As for the wedding, however, I see no reason to hold back. After all, the bride showed no restraint whatsoever in arranging it—indeed, I hear she was repeatedly begged to curb some of her wilder impulses—but it still added up to what was certainly the tackiest, most painful event I’ve witnessed to date. The back-story here is that this marked wedding #3 for my stepsister, yet she demanded all the trappings (and financial support required) one could expect for a first wedding.

It wasn't quite this bad...

A few glasses of champagne might be appropriate after a big event like this, but apparently the bride felt it would be a good idea to have them before the ceremony….and so she did, while everyone waited. Then she sashayed down the aisle, grinning at those gathered in the little church, as her teenage nephew doodled around on an out-of-tune piano, playing part of the wedding march interspersed with whatever else he could think of at the time, before stumbling to a halt.

Why am I reliving this—is it some kind of exorcism? Enough blow by blow. Here are the highlights:

When asked if she would “take this man as her husband,” the bride gave us a fatuous grin and answered heartily, “Heck yeah!”

After they were pronounced married and given permission to kiss, they stood on the altar swallowing each other like two goldfish; at one point, she grabbed his ass.

The cake topper, at her insistence, showed a bride and groom—but it depicted the bride having leapt headlong into the arms of the groom with her legs wrapped around him.

At the reception, we were treated to a few more deep kisses, and then the inevitable garter ceremony, which the bride decided would be more interesting if the groom wasn’t allowed to use his hands. So he doggedly (as in St. Bernard style) wriggled his way up her dress, finally emerging with what looked like a pair of chewed up, variegated underwear—but which was in fact her garter.

I should mention that the wedding ceremony itself took place during a total eclipse of the sun, which my astrologer partner was quick to point is the most inauspicious time to start any kind of new undertaking. And while my first thought was they’d picked the day and time deliberately because they thought it was “special” it turned out they had no idea, and the stars just naturally fell into place…

As a rule, I don’t mind seeing Jeannie uncomfortable, but even I felt sorry for her that day as she tried to remain nonchalant and upbeat through the entire farce.  My one hope (sadly unrealized) was for one of the religious zealots there to insult me and my partner in some way so I would be able to ask them, with feigned enthusiasm, to tell me all about the sanctity of marriage, after witnessing what we all had.  But the guests all behaved themselves…if only the guests.

Going Monthly....

No need to make excuses; going from a weekly to a monthly format makes sense now that other people are involved in my parents' care. I’m visiting them less often, and while they still invade my thoughts, there’s less new material to explore—until now.

Once again, they’ve been scammed. I had hoped that their earlier brush with ID theft might have instilled more caution, but the con artists are always one step ahead. They know how to insinuate themselves over time, to make a good impression and gain trust—so when they move in for the kill, their victims don’t even realize they’re being taken.

It was only by chance I found out, when I phoned my dad to check in; he mentioned the workers were there even as we spoke, replacing their heating and air conditioning system.  Alarm bells went off, and I began interrogating my hapless father, then the workmen, about what was going on. Exactly why were they replacing a system that was barely 9 years old, and seemed to be working fine?

From what I could gather, my parents had accepted an offer from this company for a “free safety inspection” of their furnace, part of the “club membership plan” they paid $8.99 per month for. And gosh, wouldn't you know that these same foxes just happened to find a “serious problem” with the furnace, one that was “potentially life threatening” if not dealt with right away.

They recommended the furnace be replaced immediately, and “while you’re at it, don’t you think it would be a good idea to replace the AC unit” since it was a few years old, and had already been worked on once? It would only add another $4,100 to the original amount, and they could even get an 18-month interest-free payment plan, so it was a mere $487 per month…

After yelling at both parents for their poor judgment, I made my way up the food chain, eventually reaching the owner of the company. I informed him (without mincing words) that this looked like fraud, and that as a mandated reporter of elder abuse, I might have to move this case forward to the DA and the fraud unit of our local police department.

The owner started by trying to overwhelm me with technical details about furnaces, and spoke of his company’s solid reputation. I then pointed out that the reviews I’d read online revealed a reputation that was far from stellar—multiple horror stories from scammed or manipulated customers.  I said I looked forward to adding my own review, in addition to calling the authorities; then the owner started to backpedal.

“Well, we guarantee 100% satisfaction,” he said. “What do you want us to do?”

For starters, I said, refund virtually the entire amount for the AC unit, which had been working and didn’t need to be replaced. As for the furnace, I knew there was little point in my trying to prove that it wasn’t defective (as it could easily have been sabotaged after its removal) so I’d let that charge stand. The owner said he’d need to talk with his “management team” and then get back to me.

Next day, I got what I wanted, at least verbally.  To seal his fate, I faxed over a letter to the owner (capturing a confirmation receipt) restating our conversation and agreement. Somehow, I suspect he won’t give us any trouble, but what’s more disturbing is that he probably regards this as part of the cost of doing business his way—for every one complaint or threat, he probably gets away with at least 10 fraudulent jobs, no questions asked.

My parents were sheepish and embarrassed, but grateful for my intervention. I let them know that this was a real wakeup call, and from now on they should not make any financial decisions without consulting one of us first. I may have saved them a few thousand dollars this time, but the nagging pessimist inside my head wonders what’s next.

All that's holy

Jeannie’s been praying for patience, but apparently nobody’s listening. I called a few days ago and she picked up the phone, sounding breathless and annoyed, but trying to cover it up with laughter. “Oh, it’s just the same old-same old,” she tittered. After some probing, she divulged that in fact she was upset with my father because she was having trouble making him understand her instructions.

The drama centered on her trying to explain, days ahead of time, that he would need to fill in the correct amount on a check, then sign it when he went to the store with me.  She was (from what I know of her style) probably telling him in exhaustive detail something he didn’t even need to know, so I told her not to worry, and that I’d write in the amount and get my dad to sign the check at the appropriate time.

Doing the shopping with my dad alone, while not exactly fun, was better than the usual arrangement.  He had a chance to make some choices about what they’d be buying, and picked out a frozen dinner he thought he might enjoy, then choosing the brand of peanut butter that he liked, as opposed to whatever was cheapest.

We returned to find Jeannie outfitted from head to toe in a flowing white gown and puffy cap, which comprised her baptismal vestments. She was awaiting the arrival of her godmother, who would be taking her to church to witness the baptism of the other new converts. “I’m supposed to wear this every day for eight days after my baptism, and today’s the eighth day,” she informed me. 

I was putting the groceries away while she expounded on the details of her new faith, telling me how meaningful it felt to her. I smiled and nodded, not knowing what else to do.

“My dad tells me that you’ll be having the house blessed,” I said.

“Oh, yes, when we get around to it.”

I didn’t mention that Gene had rolled his eyes when he told me about her plans, and said he didn’t know where he would go during the ceremony, but would like to be elsewhere. I told him I’d come get him if it was possible.

Godmother arrived. We greeted each other cautiously, and then she and Jeannie went off to discuss the significance of various religious symbols. “Oh, then that’s very significant,” I heard Jeannie say.

It was time for me to leave. I hugged my dad, and then went over to Jeannie, as usual, to give her a hug as well. But this time was different: she grimaced, and accepted my embrace stiffly—perhaps feeling that I would contaminate her sacred garb, or maybe not wanting the godmother to see her as too accepting of her gay stepson…who knows?  It was definitely time to leave.

Old and New

Old Man, New iPad

This week’s visit to Dad, on the first day of Passover, covered a lot of ground. Jeannie was at church getting baptized, so the house was blessedly quiet. I’d brought over a rich chicken and matzo ball soup to share—something he hadn’t been able to enjoy since last year. And for entertainment, I came equipped with my new iPad. 

I take for granted today’s technology, and indeed, look forward to more ahead. But for my father, who on top of his recent confusion is a virtual technophobe, it’s all a bit too much. He can manage things like the answering machine—and even had a pre-internet era computer which he would fire up now and then for word processing only.  A few years ago, with some urging from me, he bought the new “e-mail station” which could be plugged into a phone jack and then used to send or receive e-mail; he got as far as taking it out of the box and trying to read the instructions before nearly having a panic attack; he returned the device unused.

My dad is not unlike many older people in his fear of all this newfangled stuff.  He’s seen plenty of changes in his life, and has gone along with most of them, but there may be a limit to how many new things a person can learn. At least that seems to be his situation.

Trying to make the experience more relevant, I’d uploaded something special on Youtube to share with him: an educational TV broadcast from 1966, featuring none other than my father discussing the history of Commedia Dell’arte. I remember, as a 6-year-old, being awakened earlier than usual to watch the broadcast with him as it aired on a weekday morning.

Now, 46 years later, we’re together watching it again. But for my father, the experience appears to be more overwhelming than fun. I imagine him struggling to understand how the old broadcast, captured by kinescope and preserved on 16 mm tape, is now coming through my sleek iPad as we sit at the dining room table.

Maybe there’s another problem too—for him as he is now to watch the image of who he used to be—the competent, if overly reserved, professor holding forth on a topic which he clearly knew well. Yet in the video, he appears stiff, even uncomfortable at times. The crude technical quality of low budget 60s educational television makes his presentation seem even more awkward.

Sensing his discomfort, I switch to other apps: Pandora radio, including a performance by a singer he always enjoyed, then a live webcam view of New York harbor and the Statue of Liberty; he comments on the boats as they go by. “It’s a real-time view,” I say helpfully. “It’s actually happening right now.” Again, he seems overwhelmed, though he describes the experience as “stimulating.”

I suggest a walk around the complex, and he agrees. On familiar territory—his own back yard—he is more relaxed and focused. He shows me the pool and the club house and greets a neighbor working on a project, as we make our way around and back home.

Now that I think of it, a leisurely walk in the early spring sunshine, father and son talking together, is better than any number of high-tech devices, which often end up separating people more than bringing them together. Much as I like my toys, Gene seems to know inherently that there are more important things in life.

Decisions, decisions

My father spent nearly a month agonizing over whether he should open a can of tomato soup before deciding not to; meanwhile, Jeannie has moved ahead full bore on her spiritual path, and is scheduled to be baptized as a member of the Orthodox Church next week. Neither of these decisions surprises me.

Anybody who knows Gene would never describe him as reckless; precise, careful, reserved—those are the qualities that comprise my dad’s fundamental character—yet he has been known to throw his legendary caution to the wind when it comes to major life decisions like marriage or relocating. Confronted with a truly important matter, he has more than once leaped without looking, and consequences be damned. A can of tomato soup, on the other hand, apparently warrants much more careful thought. 

The soup in question was my idea: a creamy tomato basil bisque which I brought over hoping to give him a little variety from the split pea soup he’s been eating almost every day. I did my best to promote the virtues of the bisque—not too spicy, no strong garlic flavor—and then left it up to him for a while. But soon, in my weekly phone calls, I began asking if he’d tried the soup yet.

“No, not yet,” was his invariable response. So I let it go for another week. The next time I asked, I thought there was hope. “Well, I took it out and thought about it, but then decided against it,” he said.

Exasperation began creeping into my tone. “It’s just a can of soup, dad. It’s not like getting married or buying a house.” He chuckled.

Then, over at their place last week, I asked one more time about the soup. As I could have predicted, he hadn’t tried it. Jeannie piped up, saying that she too had mentioned it to him several times but he didn’t appear interested. “OK, that’s fine, I’ll just take it back,” I said. Gene, with seeming relief, handed me the can of soup. One less thing to worry about for both of us.

As for Jeannie’s conversion experience, I knew it was coming. Her monologues now are filled with references to divine intervention (which apparently extends to simple mistakes in legal documents and the address of another church member but to her all provides fresh meaning in an otherwise dull life.)

She’s undeniably happy, and I won’t begrudge that. Befuddled and trivial as she is, anything that gives her a sense of purpose is fine, so long as she doesn’t try to foist her beliefs on others. That’s a big “if” given that she has a lifelong tendency to share her feelings about everything. I’ll do my best to smile and bite my tongue rather than debating her.

After all, beliefs are just that—beliefs. They can’t be proven or disproven, and no matter how illogical or strange they might seem to others they make perfect sense to their owners. I accept that believers see the world as they do, and leave them alone; what annoys me is that so many of them seem unwilling to return the favor.

Old Jokes

Went to a birthday party this past weekend; I think everybody there was over 50, and many were in their 60s or beyond. The birthday girl, a sprightly 68, looked great—partly due to decorative art—but never mind that. What stood out was how much younger old people seem to me now compared to some years ago.

Granted, this group would be classified as the youngest of the older set, but somehow they seemed more vibrant than people of that demographic appeared to me in the past, in touch with themselves and each other, looking ahead rather than behind.

Spirits were high and people were telling jokes—appropriately enough, most of them about old people. Maybe jokes about the elderly are still acceptable, given that almost everyone will have the opportunity to be one of “them” at some point.  Ironic, though, since “some point” may be here far sooner than people realize.  Then again, there could be an element of denial or defensive posturing that takes place when people tell jokes about their own kind (while not thinking of themselves as those other people.) 

As I said before, this group could hardly be called typical. San Francisco Bay Area folks are less inclined to identify with the “older adult” category—clothing and hairstyles are more likely to be hip, and most importantly, attitudes stay current: no grousing about “young people these days” or “back when I was young, we used to…”  If I were to observe a gathering of mature Idaho Republican churchgoers, I might encounter the same old folks/old attitudes I remember from my youth.

Even so, my Berkeley buddies aren't blindly optimistic about the future, unaware of the world’s challenges. I see more hope and less head-shaking going on than I used to: the prevailing attitude seems to be, “Things may be going to hell now but somehow it will all work out…”

And if things don’t work out, most of us older folks won’t be around to deal with it. The joke, as it were, will be on the next generation. 

The most important thing....

AFTER all this time, it occurs to me that writing a blog is like keeping a diary—the now quaint habit of scribing daily events and thoughts—do people still do that, I wonder? As in: “Dear Diary, I woke up late and suddenly remembered that…”

And while I don’t think of these random offerings as my diary, there’s enough personal (and, I hope, literary) depth to bring things up to a level slightly higher than the pathetic self-promotional bleating of too many cyber-authors.  What I’m aiming for is more like a journal, something that lets me record incidents or conversations I can look back on later to provide myself with context, or just to reflect.

A recent exchange between me and my father merits recording, even though I’m unlikely to forget it anytime soon. We were talking about my stepmother’s ongoing religious conversion process (which I referred to as brainwashing); my dad agreed, saying, “Definitely. She’s really going for it in a big way.”  I then said, “I don’t imagine you’ll be moving in that direction.”

He laughed, and said “Definitely not.” And after a short pause: “Well, I have you…and you’re the most important thing in my life.”

What can one say to that? It’s not the first time he’s told me how much I mean to him—but it’s always moving. For me, seeing him as a representative of his buttoned-up generation, it’s a bit of a shock when my father speaks from the heart so directly…I almost feel embarrassed. I respond in kind, though, thanking him and saying I feel the same…but a little unsure of what that means.

The bond between parent and child changes (at least from the child’s perspective) once the child is an adult.  A unique connection is still there, but I imagine a parent will always feel the sense of being a parent, loving his or her child in the same way, while the adult child loses at least some of the intense attachment that characterizes the early parent-child relationship.

Almost every phone call ends with my dad telling me, “I love you,” and I say the same to him. It feels incomplete, almost wrong, if for some reason we don’t get to say that to each other. Hearing those words, knowing their truth, is a big part of who I am—my feelings of worth and self-confidence I owe at least in part to the strong emotional support I got from the beginning.

I realize there will come a time when those three simple words will no longer pass between us, so I treasure them even more. Knowing how many children rarely (if ever) heard them from their fathers gives me good reason to feel grateful…