6423-25 Legacy

When I was six years old, my family moved into a flat on California Street in San Francisco in a building that my dad and his brother had renovated.  We lived upstairs in the 3 bedroom flat with a big back porch and a great yard that had one tree with a tree house. In time, my dad built gates into the 3 neighboring backyards where our friends lived and our playing space expanded exponentially.

Downstairs from the flat at street level was my dad's upholstery shop. Behind the shop and up a short flight of stairs was a small apartment where my uncle lived for a time. After that it was a space for visiting relatives or temporary housing for my dad's workers. Also behind the shop and below the apartment was a basement.

When my parents divorced, my dad moved into the apartment, and he rented the flat to a woman who had one daughter. During the last year of my dad's life, my uncle moved into the shop creating a little living space at the back near the apartment. He piled as much of his belongings as he could on top of my father's already abundant collection at the front of the shop, all around the living space he had shaped, and in the basement. He took care of my dad during his last months, and once he had sufficiently grieved my dad's passing, he moved into the apartment where he lived 18 more years until his death this past January. He didn't remove any of my dad's things but settled his life on top of that of my father's. The upstairs tenant remained in the flat for 42 years.

Now my siblings and I are diving into the legacy in the building at 6423-25 California Street. The layers are deep and pitted with emotion. Last weekend, Cindy and I met my sister Ginger, my son Raleigh, his wife Jenny, and their son Kyle for our second dive into the bowels of the shop and apartment. Well actually, it is the 3rd dive as the fire marshall demanded some cleanup a year ago, and a family contingent spent two days sorting and hauling away much of the flammable material. But there are still mountains of stuff left.

Here's what I want to say: While this could be viewed as a terrible mess left for the heirs to deal with (it is), it is also an opportunity for an endearing thread of connection between the generations. Candice acquires some of her Great Uncle Buddy's record albums and Haydon gets some of his model airplanes. Jenny gets one of Grandpa Stasiu's whale knick-knacks and a photo of Kyle with a 20-year-old jar of Grandpa's kombucha brew; Culley takes the copper triangle that hung over his grandpa's head for years and Raleigh has a tool heyday. Cindy makes a pile of scrap metal for her folks while Ginger and I zero in on memorabilia like a black metal tin with pink flamingos filled with silver coins and a glass box both of which belonged to our father.

We have a couple more trips planned into this crazy haven of history and accumulation. Each time, relatives of the family who first moved into 6423-25 will dive in to see what they can find. Not only is it an hilarious experience of "one person's junk is another person's treasure," these visits are a catch-all for satisfying memories.

Family Daze

Last Sunday, Clare and I went to Mass at St. Josephs in Mariposa. During the homily, the priest talked about Blue Monday, a late January phenomena of depression related to the middle of winter, cold, dark days, lots of sickness, and the distance from both Christmas and Easter with their sacred energy. He went on to offer three practical ways to manage the challenges this time of year brings: gratitude, an affirming attitude, and kindness.

The last week of January 2013 was full of such blueness in our family. The flu hit Cindy's parents and Jennie Lou and Clare. My son's father-in-law was extremely ill and ended up in the hospital as did Cindy's dad. Michael and Raleigh were out of town which left their wives limping along without their main support, and to make matters worse the elder sons, who pitch in with driving and child care, were also away. My daughter-in-law leaped to help her dad, and many friends and I stepped forward to help manage the children--including providing transportation to school, work, and sports--and overnight supervision. Jennie Lou's car broke down, leaving her not only sick but basically stranded. So I did some driving to get those kids to and from school and other events. Over in Mariposa, where Cindy was helping her folks, the pump to the well went out leaving them without water after dark on Friday night. It was dizzying week that could have dropped us to our knees or at least into sick beds but it didn't.

Without actually thinking about, we were doing what the priest recommended. We were grateful to be healthy and have the strength needed to help. We were willing, which was definitely an affirming attitude. And I'm pretty sure we were kind in everything we did.

We love our HUGE family even when dazed with blue moments--for we see the tenderness there and know the blessing.

Solo

For several years I've been wanting to have a dog in my life again. It's been over 20 years since I last owned a dog, but for the first 40 years of my life I was never without one.  Not sure what sparked the recent urge; perhaps it was just a dormant ember that never went away.

My dog has almost arrived on three different occasions. First, I found a Beagle on a rescue site whose mistress had died. The surviving spouse was moving into a small apartment and didn't feel he could keep the dog. On the day I was supposed to go meet her, I got cold feet and called the gentleman. Relief flooded through me to hear him say he took my change of heart as a sign that he needed to keep the dog after all.

The next dog who nearly came to live with me was my grandson's dog, Baxter, who actually spent a week visiting. At the time, my daughter and her family were considering a move out of the area, and it was going to be difficult to take Baxter with them. She asked if I would consider keeping Baxter when they left. I said, "Yes" because I'd enjoyed this companionable dog and walking him several times a day. But then the move fell through, and Baxter stayed with the family he'd known most of his life.

Solo is the 3rd dog. Several weeks ago my brother emailed that Solo, a sweet Baja hound, had been abandoned by his gringo owners. Andy thought Solo would be the perfect dog for me. I fell in love immediately.

But still, I hesitated. I spent a week thinking about Solo, imagining him in my home and heart, and I was blessed with learning much about myself. Here are the highlights:

• The email and picture of Solo came hours after I learned of my Uncle Buddy's death, which drew a firm line between my love of animals and my Uncle, who in many ways cultivated that love.
• My brother and my son reminded me of the unique love a dog gives, which is undoubtedly a thing a long for.
• When Cindy stopped letting the decision be all mine and joined whole-heartedly in imagining Solo as our dog, the picture of him in our home grew vivid and alive. I could really feel what it would mean to grow our family with the presence of this dog. The reality was wonderful and also sobering.
• Several weeks ago, I wrote in my journal that I planned to radically change the priorities in my life in 2013. Solo was a test of what that meant to me, for adding him to my life would certainly be a radical change. But suddenly this morning I knew that what I meant by radical change was letting go of wanting and making more space in my life.

I wrote to my brother and his wife saying I declined the offer of Solo. As much as I appreciated being their choice and as much as I wanted him, I knew I needed to look a different way.

A few minutes later, I read this poem by a writer I studied with in graduate school. Some how it seemed to resonate prophetically for better or worse with my decision. 

ThePhysics of the Known World

by Paul Lisicky

That silly retriever. He doesn't go to the two guys looking right at him, beaming him awake with concentrated joy. Not at all: he goes straight to the man with his head turned to the left, who could care less about doggy behavior and isn't the least bit stirred by the snout parked in the knee and the wagging hind parts. And that's it: the physics of the known world. Which is why the trees look better when they're left unwatered, and the birds actually prefer it when you don't sing back to them. And the holy man crossing the street with the black brim hat? He knows better than to pick up what he's dropped and lift his face to the mountains. Take it from him, friend. You probably wouldn't even want it if the light hit you in your head.

Uncle Buddy

Uncle Buddy was nothing like my dad, his brother. He was bald, smoked a pipe, and listened to classical music. For a good part of my childhood, he lived in an apartment behind my dad's shop. We lived in the flat upstairs--we being my mom and dad and four siblings. I was the eldest, and I always felt like I was Uncle Buddy's favorite.

That may or may not have been so, but what I do know is that I loved going down to his apartment to pet Uncle Buddy's Siamese cat, Spookie, until my eyes reddened and tears spilled from allergies. We had a dog upstairs, but I liked cats despite being allergic to them. Mostly, however, I enjoyed sitting in the sunny peaceful apartment in a pall of pipe smoke and drifting cat hair, listening to a Tchaikovsky piano concerto and mesmerized by the spinning turntable of my uncle's record player. It was a quiet interlude from the busy household upstairs.

When my best friend, moved from San Francisco to San Bruno when I was 7, it was Uncle Buddy who took me to see her on Saturday afternoons. It seemed like I had to beg him to take me. "Please, Uncle Buddy, can you take me to see Nancy?" And it seemed like he always did. I can't imagine what he did while I played with my friend for several hours. All I remember is the foggy drive back to the city on Skyline Boulevard.

When our family dog was hit by car, I was devastated. A few months later, Uncle Buddy took me to pick out a puppy to replace her. It was Uncle Buddy who taught me how to potty train the puppy and teach it to walk on a lead. I know I eventually tired of this responsibility and my mom took over Lucky's care, but I think I learned a lot because Uncle Buddy believed I could do it.  He also showed me how to feed the wounded pigeons I brought home and he brought the beautiful green parrot that lived in a cage in our dining room for many years. I know my love and appreciation of animals was stirred by this man.

Uncle Buddy taught me how to drive in his 1956 Jaguar--a stick shift. He had me practice in the quiet streets in the Sea Cliff district until I mastered the clutch. And then he took me on busier streets and taught me how to stop and go on the hills of San Francisco and how to parallel park on Clement Street. I passed my driver's test on my 16th birthday on the very first try. The following summer, he let me have the Jaguar for the month of August in Twain Harte where we had a summer cabin. But first he made sure I knew how to check the oil, fill it with gas, and change a flat tire.

My adult relationship with Uncle Buddy was distant and somewhat strained. I don't think he wanted me to grow up. But a few weeks ago, I visited him at the VA hospital. He was 90 years old, blind, hard of hearing, and frequently delirious, but in a moment of lucidity he said, "Ah, Patsy. Your hair is grey now. I saw a picture of you in your boat. Beautiful! You will live a long time." He was remembering a card I'd sent him 9 years earlier when he could still see a little. I held his big hand and let the tears drop on the bedsheets.

The blessings of elders are special. Uncle Buddy blessed me with loving attention as a child, but this blessing a few days before his death on January 6, 2013 was a treasure.

Technology: The Savior--Sort Of

The Dixon family was terribly disappointed to learn that neither Kenny nor Rex would make it home for Christmas this year. Kenny is a student at Columbia University who couldn't afford the plane fare and Rex was scheduled to work with his Staten Island Coast Guard crew. Christmas would not be the same without these guys.

But wait! With Facetime we could bring them home--sort of!

Sandie set up computers on the dining room table and dialed the boys. VIOLA! There they were. We opened gifts, laughed and cried with them. And not just once but twice: first, on Christmas Eve when they opened their Christmas jammies AND again on Christmas morning when everyone was opening gifts. We laughed when Rex explained that he had locked himself in a room at the station so his buddies couldn't tease him about his gifts "from Santa." And we teared up when Kenny broke down about missing Christmas and his dog Summer licked his tears away. It wasn't flesh and blood, but it was close. The spaces they usually occupied on the couch next to their sister Sabrina opening gifts were not empty.

Later in the morning, nephew Perry called on Facetime from Virginia, and the whole extended family got to visit with Perry, his wife Erin, and their four kids. The wonders of technology brought them across the country to the big family celebration.

Meanwhile, I was communicating via email with my siblings about our Uncle Buddy who at 90 is approaching the end of his life and needing our attention. Because of email, we are able to all be part of one conversation about his care even though we are miles apart in Florida, Northern California--Fremont, Fort Bragg, Jamestown-- and in Todos Santos, Mexico.

Holiday celebrations put the focus on family, and this year, the wonders of technology enhanced that focus--pixelating and dispatching sights, sounds, and news. And to prove my point, as I was writing this blog post, I got an email from my Aunt Jean in Yuma AZ to which she attached a scanned photo of me, my brother, and my maternal grandparents taken in 1951.

I'm thankful for the technology that saves spaces, faces, and memories.

Abundant Heart

My heart filled again and again in the week before Christmas, this year. It all began with Occupy Christmas. For a time, I didn't think it was going to be possible to pull off our annual Christmas party, but with the creative thinking of four people, the event was more than I hoped for. My heart was so full with the sound of family after the party that I had trouble going to sleep. What I didn't know was how much that party set the stage for the rest of the week as each day found me doing and experiencing things I never thought possible.

On Monday, Clare and Mary Autumn spent the afternoon with us. Four-year-old Clare is a delightful chatterbox, but my heart melted in conversation with Mary Autumn. As Clare hung out chatting with Cindy, Mary Autumn and I colored and talked-- truly talked. Eight-year-olds aren't usually interested in how their grandmothers spend their days, but Mary Autumn's curiosity was deeply sincere when she said, "What did you do before we came over today?" Her mature inquiry was matched with careful listening and questions about my broken car which I'd taken for repairs and the chores I'd performed. What a joy to find a sympathetic ear in this young granddaughter.

On Tuesday evening, I joined a powerful clan of women for dinner. Each woman had served as Faculty Senate President at the local college, and the group meets three times a year to discuss the challenges of leadership and celebrate successes. After retiring from the college, I stopped attending these gatherings, but one of the gals reminded me that I am always welcome and encouraged me to join the party this year. A surge of energy pulsed in my heart in the presence of all this glowing feminine power. Wit, intelligence, and camaraderie were abundant at the table. I'd misplaced this measure of commanding influence and was thrilled to partake again.

On Wednesday, I enjoyed two heart boosters. At Masters swim practice, I didn't think it was possible to swim six 100s faster than my base time, but nestled in the middle of four lane mates, I gave the task my all and surprised myself with the speed I needed. Later I met with Write-on Women, my writers group. Despite icy roads and December demands, eight creative women made this meeting a priority. Being in the company of others--be it writers or swimmers-- injects my heart with a can-do spirit when most of me is screaming "I don't want to!."

Thursday was a heart melting day all day. My 35 year-old son Raleigh volunteered to accompany me on the three hour drive to San Francisco to see my 90-year-old Uncle Buddy who is in the hospital with delirium and severe back pain. Raleigh infused the trip with his philosophy of love. The city of my birth was beautiful beyond belief from the first clear sighting on the 580 to unsurpassable views from the Chapel in the VA Hospital. Uncle Buddy was sweetly demented in his brown beanie addressing me as the 12 year old he once knew. I held his hand-- deeply veined and pearly translucent-- while Raleigh prayed until Uncle Buddy sank back into his chair and slept. So dear is the arc of life.

Friday night, my dharma buddies had an end-of-the-world-party. The instructions were to wear something we never get to wear and bring a gift to recycle. We also each brought specialty foods for an elegant potluck dinner served on china with crystal glasses and silver flatware. Twelve gorgeous women dressed to the hilt, enjoyed a stellar meal from an amazing table and engaged in several hours of noble conversation. We were prepared to go out on a superior moment! My heart was buoyant with promise and no need to know what would come next.

Saturday was a heart-opening yoga workshop, in which the instructor Rocky Heron had no doubt that students could do things they previously did not think possible. And so with his help, I did my first handstand at age 64. I was overwhelmed, grinning and crying at the same time. My heart was wide open as I headed home to find dear Cindy sweetening the house with her presence, her love of the holidays, and her boundless energy on behalf of our family. Hers is a love that always lifts me higher!

It's risky to step out in the world with my heart wide open, but this week, open-heartedness allowed all manner of joy and love to flow in.

Occupy Christmas

Reinventing family traditions after a divorce can be a real challenge, so I'm delighted to be in the 5th year of an annual Christmas Party thrown by my kids' father, his new wife, Bonnie, and me and my partner, Cindy. Splitting the costs and labor, the four of us start prepping for the party in September. Then each year, despite incredibly busy lives, our 3 children and their families--14 grandkids in all-- come together on a Sunday afternoon in December to make merry. A trimmed tree, lights and streamers, food, gifts and stockings are part of the mix, but also lots of catching up for both kids and adults. Though we all live in the same county, we lead full, rich lives, so connections are haphazard and intermittent and rarely involve the whole crowd. Speaking for myself, the best part of this party is the chance to make memorable connections with cousins, in-laws, uncles and aunts. Of course, the kids are pretty interested in the gifts and stockings too.

This year we ran into some hurdles. Our finances got murky, and Cindy and I weren't able to squirrel away a regular monthly deposit to our Christmas fund. Raymond was scheduled for knee replacement surgery three weeks before the party, and we knew he would not be doing much elfing. Plus, he was very entrenched in the local "Occupy" movement, and he wanted to Occupy Christmas. For a brief moment, we considered canceling the party this year, but that idea went up in a poof of smoke. Instead, we put on our thinking caps and started modifying our usual modus operandi, especially when it came to gifts.

We began with the Occupy Christmas motif and grabbed the idea to choose gifts that were made in the USA. Then we decided we wanted to involve local merchants or businesses somehow. The year before, I had come up with the idea of including one personal treasure that belonged to one of us in each stocking. We decided to include those treasures in the main gift and ask the grandkids to each contribute 3 small treasures of their own as stocking stuffers. We gave them stickers, asked them to attach their names to the items, and we collected them the Sunday before Thanksgiving. The kids complied with a delightful array of things from compasses to toy cars to nail polish.

On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the day before Raymond's surgery, we met to decide which kids would get which treasures in their gifts and stockings. This was a super fun chore. When one of us suggested a certain treasure for one of the children, we went with it, totally trusting our very first instincts. I named Huck recipient of my magnetic poetry. Cindy thought Leon should have Nell's dream oil. Bonnie thought Anna Mae would like her sleep mask. Raymond dropped the hacky-sacks into Aliou's pile.  For the main gift, we had ordered American made bath sheets for each child and hired a local seamstress to appliqué each child's name on his or her towel.

I admit to a bit of trepidation the morning of the party. Would the kids be disappointed with this variant on previous parties?  Definitely not!  The smiles, laughter and shouts rang with full-fledged Christmas wonder. Huck wore his towel like a toga for an hour after opening it. Mary Autumn and Nell lined their gifts on the floor beside the tree to admire. Leon pumped dream oil on anyone who approached him, and the four who got our headlamps ran out in the dark to play.

Granddaddy had to leave early as this was the most activity his bionic knee had seen in weeks, but everyone else stayed late-- occupying Christmas.