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Originally uploaded by noah.p
One of my favorite pictures, taken on July 7 2007 in Shevlin Park, in Bend. Paul and Milena were there for the week of July 4. The rest of the family drove over from Eugene.
Los Altos, Eugene, etc
Click here for the Amiglia album Cape Cod 2007 Click here for the Picasa album Cape Cod 2007 |
I drove from Philadelphia where I had a presentation with AOM. Paul and Milena and Eva flew from New York and drove from Boston. Dad and Liz had reserved a room for Paul and Milena and Eva. I stayed with them in their condo. The water was warm. The food was good, the company too. Lobster on the patio and deck, a warm breeze, swimming in the ocean before breakfast. |
The drive was memorable, for me. You all said it was crazy. It sort of started with a three-hour delay in San Francisco the day before, which meant I got to the airport at 1 am so I wasn’t fussy about the red Chevrolet Impala V8 with a tailfin that Hertz had left for me. I had reserved a midsize, the smallest Neverlost available.
The next day, Friday August 3, started poorly. I had to take an ambien at 3 am to sleep, so I slept until 10, then called Hertz about the car. The nice lady on the phone said I should take it to the downtown office — just a few blocks away — and switch it. Fortunately I called first, and when I did they told me they didn’t have any midsize. Oh well. Big, red, tailfin … perfect I suppose for I95 up the East Coast from Philadelphia to Cape Cod.
My presentation was anti-climactic to say the least. Four people showed up. So it wasn’t hard, no tension, but not useful. It started at 2, finished at 5. The concierge sent me to a nice-looking Italian deli across the street for a sandwich and fruit, but it was closed, so I got some food at (gulp) a downtown 7-11. Gulp indeed.
Then it was me and the red impala and Suzie Neverlost, with “on the road again” as background music. I listened to the audible book version of “Made to Stick, by Chip and Dan Heath. I drove. I followed Suzy’s directions and she took me over a shortcut from one interstate to another, up New Jersey towards New York. I was okay with a crowded freeway heading out of Philadelphia towards New Jersey at 6 pm, but that traffic gradually faded, and I steamed up the freeway for a while happily.
As I approached New York, seeing the skyline and bridges and all, I assumed Suzy would take us to the left of the city, as indicated by Google maps. Nope. Before I had time to stop and reconsider, with me going 60 plus MPH the whole time, she took us right over the George Washington bridge into (gulp) Manhattan. It was upper Manhattan, ugly, squat, hot, threatening, and absolutely jammed with traffic. We crept slowly inch by inch through the Bronx, going about two or three miles in an hour. It was almost 8 pm before I was on the New England turnpike at freeway speeds again. Suzy said we still had almost 5 hours to go.
I just kept going. Night fell. The freeway was well lit but I slowed from 80-ish to 70-ish in the dark. The book kept going, stayed interesting. By about 9:30 I realized I’d made a significant failure to plan, I was still hurdling through Connecticut in the dark at 70 miles per hour but I was also still a full three hours from my destination, meaning that I’d get to my destination in the middle of the night with nowhere to sleep without waking up Dad and Liz, if that was even possible. I considered calling 1-800-hhonors but where was I, how could I ask for a hotel if I didn’t know where I was or where I would be? Then I decided I’d get Megan to get on Google maps and help me, but I called home and talked to Cristin, Megan wasn’t there. The prospect of sleeping in the car was not fun. I didn’t slow down though, because Suzy kept saying I still had a long way to go.
I lucked out. Around Mystic CT there was a cluster of highway motels. Howard Johnson’s had only a smoking room, Econolodge had nothing, but the Holiday Inn Express had one room left.
“It’s a handicapped room,” the guy said.
“Is that bad? Do I have to be handicapped?”
“No, it’s fine, it’s just the last room we have and it’s late enough now that we’re supposed to rent it.” It was 10:15 pm. So I got a nice clean normal hotel room and went to sleep. The car said we were 2:16 from the destination.
I was up at 7 and on the road at 8, but no luck on the 2:15 from the destination. Suzy Neverlost is totally naive about traffic, and there’s a bottleneck getting into Cape Cod around the Bourne Bridge and the Cape Cod canal that meant once again, as with New York the day before, it took me about an hour to advance three minutes on Suzy’s schedule.
So I was there about 11:15, and it was a great day in Cape Cod, alternatively cloudy and sunny, Paul and Milena and Eva were already there, the condo was comfortable, the water was warm, we had lobster sandwiches on the deck of the clubhouse for lunch and lobster on a patio restaurant overlooking a harbor for dinner. Dad and Liz raved about Eva, Paul, and Milena, all of whom were very nice, charming, good looking, hard working, and smart.
Paul Milena and Eva left after a breakfast on Sunday, but we met on the beach before breakfast to swim in the ocean. It was warm again, and Sunday was spectacularly beautiful, about 80 degrees high, low humidity, bright, blue, and, well, beautiful. We had a nice dinner at a nice restaurant, Ocean something, and dad and I sat up talking for a long time.
Monday morning was a special treat. Dad has a regular tennis game every day about 10 a.m. and he borrowed a racket for me to join. It was a bit surreal to feel like a youngster at 59, the whole group was in their 70s and 80s, they all played excellent tennis, they were also a very fun group, great spirits, joking, teasing, enjoying themselves. I was forgiven for my mediocre tennis because I was so young, or so it seemed — and I’m 59 years old as I write this. The whole thing made me happy on several levels, I’m really glad dad is doing so well, I’m glad he’s happy, I’m glad he’s healthy, and the group is a reminder to all of us that some people do well with age. These men all play better tennis than I do, they are all very much alert and aware and alive, and they are all in late 70s or 80s. For the record, dad is the oldest and the best tennis player of all.
— Tim
Click here for the google maps for this.
From a letter from Jay to the rest of us, written a few years ago.
1962 was one sweet year.
So I’m flyin down the road to see Mark high as an eight-year old can be. Coulda been Pooh feeling singy. Out of my head, ecstatic. I come up to Mark, who has a severe, kind of what are you doing here look on his face. Undeterred, I yell out: “Wow, we got ten days with no school (geez, I feel even happier these days when spring break comes around!), and the laconic Sherman, preparing for his later days as surly drug dealer, answers: “So?” This was Mark’s favorite phrase. He thought it was magical. So? So? He loved it. He thought it gave him Harry Potter-like special powers. Whenever Mark didn’t know what to say, he’d say “So?” Anyway…
Thanks mainly to Paul and Milena, we were in Bend from June 29 through July 8, 2007, staying mostly at Noah and Sabrina’s house. The Parsons came for both weekends, Vange and Megan came from Tuesday through Sunday, and I was there with them the whole time. It was a really good vacation for me, and I got to know Eva like I hadn’t had a chance to before. We saw some houses for sale, hiked along the Deschutes River. | |
Click here for the Amiglia album Bend June-July 2007 | |
Click here for the Picasa album Bend June-July 2007 |
June 23, 2007
Note to Vange:
I’m very sorry I haven’t been more supportive and appreciative through the years. There’s no denying to anybody that our garden is your achievement, yours alone, and wow, what a beautiful garden it is. I know I don’t do any part of it, but I do really enjoy it, I am so glad it is our house, and I’m grateful to you and proud of you for how beautiful it has become.
I do remember how far it’s come too. When we arrived here in 1992, there was a scruff patch of lawn in the front, the stone wall divider was there, the hedges — hooray — were there and the apple trees that were beautiful for years but eventually caused you so much trouble. Other than that, weeds.
Chad Greenberg’s year with us was a good start. The fence in the back was vital. The extra walkway, the new paving in the back, around the side, the lights in the garden. So many years ago, but that was a big step up.
Little by little, you did it. The gardener who cared about weed much more than weeds, the parade of gardeners who didn’t cut it, getting the dirt, getting the plants. There were all those days trolling the nurseries. The days with Kyle King, and Jane whatever-her-name was, and Marcelino and Juan.
There was also the occasional fight with the neighbor below us. And the moles. Remember the summers that Megan and I spent half a day here and there trying to persuade the moles to leave? The struggles to water in the summer and the disappointments when sprinklers failed in 2003, we came back from vacation and trees had tied. The struggle with the city to protect the back hedge.
Remember also when Megan was in third grade and one of her friends’ parents came to the door, and, presumably just to be nice, and asked Megan how her family kept the lawn so nice. “A man comes who does it,” Megan answered.
Two nights ago I got home around dusk, and it was just plain amazing. What a spectacle. I got my camera and took some of the pictures here. But they were a reminder that, beautiful as the garden is, it is best with the people.
How about those beautiful garden moments, like Sabrina’s wedding and the brunch the next day, or the three Lauras’ birthday in 2000. The summer afternoons we’d spend with the deck and the barbecue. The first summer when the garden was full of yellow jackets. Megan’s birthday party on the deck. Megan and Beba in the garden on a hot summer day. Remember when Paul used to play with the slider with Megan. Remember the “mensa” story? The days Sabrina and Noah and their friends played badminton, and, more recently, Megan’s friends from Stanford when they came? How about when we filled up the wading pool on a particularly hot summer day, filling it first with water and then with baby grandsons.
Nowadays I remember the garden every day, I never take the walk down from the back where I park down the walkway to the house without breathing in the garden. I love it in when it’s warm and rich and full of color, the bright greens and Spring or summer flowers against the dark blue sky, but I also love it when it’s cold and rainy and gray, still a richness and a reminder of home as home.
And there was also the beginning, when the back yard was nothing much more than dirt divided into two levels. The stone wall was there when we got here, and the back hedge and some apple trees that are gone now, but not much else.
Last month, in Villas del Sol, I met Leo.
You know Leo? My grandson, Noah’s and Sabrina’s son, Timmy’s little brother? I didn’t, I discovered. I loved him but I didn’t know him. He was just a generic baby until that trip.
Now, however, I know Leo as a person, with a personality; like I know Christopher, Timmy, and Eva. I can feel him smile, I can feel him worry sometimes, at least by looking at his face. This is Leo Parsons. There we are in the picture, Leo and me, sharing a moment.
Leo and I shared moments. Several times I kept him company while he slept in the shade of the Palapa on the beach during the heat of the day. He was wrapped in a towel on one chaise and I was reading on the next chaise, both of them pushed together. Leo would wake up and I would see first curiosity in his blue eyes, and then, quite quickly, peaceful recognition. “Oh yes, I’m on the beach, and my granddad is here with me.” He would then drift back to sleep.
Leo frequently smiled in his sleep.
When I fed Leo, he used mouth motions and sparkling eyes to establish a definite line of communication with me. He engaged me as surely as the computer engages the cellphone when they synchronize over a cable. This was not just feeding, this was also communicating. He wanted to watch me smile and react when he opened the mouth to ask me for the next bite. He connects the mouth opening with the eyes sparkling, and he wanted me to see that. He was even showing off, proud of himself. He wanted me to tell him parents how good he was. I could tell that.
Leo was getting less-than-super-healthy Mexican Comercial Mexicana baby food, which he seemed to like. His eyes told me he particularly enjoyed having his own version of junk food, the short-term escape from the law of Sundance. I could tell that.
Leo liked to wander freely around the floor, crawling, standing himself up on things like couches and tables, seeking cables to chew on, and looking for mischief. He clearly liked that much better with company, though. He wanted me not just to watch him but to appreciate him, talk about what he was doing that he wasn’t supposed to be doing. He wanted me to join him in the drama.
How much of this was Sabrina’s doing, how much Noah’s? I’m intrigued with the question. They certainly made it easy to know Leo. Was that just convenience, or were they doing that on purpose? That’s hard to tell, and doesn’t really matter.
Was this quality time or quantity time? I think you need quantity to get quality.
I’m sure this same kind of thing happened with Christopher, Timmy, and Eva, because I have the same sense of love and bonding with all three. But I’m writing now, and I’m more aware of how and when and what, so this is about Leo. Hello Leo.
You who know me, imagine this, on Monday, June 11, 2007.
I’m on the plane now, more than halfway to New York, from San Francisco.
The flight was scheduled to leave at 12:45 pm.
I stayed too long on the computer in the hotel room, looked up suddenly at 10:45 without having packed, still typing.
I wasn’t on the freeway until 11:15.
I needed gas. Megan and I had been to Monterey and Carmel and back, the tank was almost empty, Hertz charges like $6 per gallon so it seemed cavalier and wasteful to not get gas. I pulled off the freeway at Holly in San Carlos, got into the gas station at 11:25. The ATM didn’t accept my card. I gave the machine a $20 and it took it, but then I couldn’t reach the tank with the pump, had to move the car, and then the ATM machine was unhappy with me, sent me to see the cashier. I wasn’t back on the freeway with a full tank until 11:35.
I drove fast. I was at Hertz at 11:55. I handed the paperwork to a person and told them to mail the receipt. I was on the rental car train at 12:05 and into security at 12:10. I was selected for special security because I had toothpaste and sunblock in my baggage. I wasn’t out of security until 12:25.
I was almost the last person on the plane. I called Megan because I had to tell somebody.
The plane sat on the runway for 30 minutes for gate hold at New York.
You take the opportunities you get. This one was because Megan’s last final was June 8 and I was going to New York on June 11. Vange and Cristin were set to join her for packing her room on June 12. So i rearranged to join her for a couple days, sort of on my way to New York.
I was thinking about Yosemite, but somebody recommended Monterey and Carmel, I think Sabrina. We decided on that. I reserved a Miata to make it more fun.
I picked Megan up Saturday morning at Slav-Dom. She’ll have to post on how good it feels to be entirely done with the second year at Stanford, the last final — Friday night from 7 to 10 pm — done. She certainly seems happy about it.
We drove to Monterey, top down for about 30 minutes until the novelty wore off. We stayed at Hotel Pacifico, walked around, saw the aquarium, had dinner (note Megan’s last post) at a wonderful restaurant in Pacific Grove called Passionfish.
More pictures are on Amiglia.
I watched the 1987 movie Moonstruck, just a few days ago, in 2001. I was 39 when I first saw it, and I now think I missed something profoundly important, probably because I had to be 50-something to really see it.
In one scene, Raymond and Rita Cappomaggi — both in their 50s, married forever, they keep a store together — are arguing about something trivial, the standard bickering so typical of middle-aged couples, when he suddenly stops, and looks at her intently.
“What is it?” she asks.
“I just saw you looking exactly like you did when I first fell in love with you,” he answers (or something like that — I’m paraphrasing). She smiles the smile of a blushing 15-year-old girl.
And we the audience see it in her, the way she looked once thirty years older, and that it is still she. It’s magical how that moment, for Raymond and Rita, makes other moments come alive, dissolves the break between present and past. Love is still there, and it is a suddenly-morphed love that preserves the foundations of knock-down, drag-out youthful infatuation, but builds it on the solid foundation of time, reality, making it work.
This is not the typical starstruck young lovers. These people are middle aged. That’s unusual in movies.
The movie of course revolves around the blistering-hot love affair between Loretta (Cher) and Ronnie (Nicholas Cage). Movie romances need beautiful people. Even so, it still has its unusual angles: Loretta is supposed to marry Ronnie’s brother Johnny, but more out of 30-something fatigue than love, until she meets the brother, Ronnie. With Ronnie she has the kind of love we’re used to in movies, the young and the beautiful, but even with that subplot the movie has something special to say about love. Ronnie tells Loretta:
“Loretta, I love you,” he pleads. “Not like they told you love is, and I didn’t know this either, but love don’t make things nice – it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess.
“We aren’t here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die.”
This movie, however, doesn’t settle for just that — which would be good enough — because it connects that kind of “beautiful young people in love” with the long-term love that (we hope, we assume) it creates. Near the conclusion, Raymond sits in the kitchen with his wife Rita, his sister Rose (Loretta’s mother), and his brother-in-law Cosmo, Loretta’s father, Rose’s husband. He remembers a moonlit scene 30 years earlier, when Cosmo stood outside the family home, bathed in moonlight and bathed in magic. The connection between then and now is made. Rose looks at her husband Cosmo, and as she does she sees both the bumpy and ill-shaped old fart in front of her plus the romantic suitor who was lit by moonlight many years earlier. She’s angry at him, struggling with him, struggling with life, but she pauses, looks him in the eye, and says “T’ Amo.” I love you. He’s caught off guard, focuses, and answers back: “T’ Amo.” They both mean it.
That’s true love. It’s solid, like granite, with magic sprinkled over it, like moonlight.