Home is Where the Tart Is

It’s been a bumpy week. The funeral, which went as well as it possibly could have. The travel, which, um, did not.

First, though, thanks to everyone for the meaningful condolences. From cannoli to cards to so, so many beautiful flowers, the expressions of sympathy have been so appreciated. There’s a certain fragility that seems to set in at times like these, an odd wobbliness, and it seems that each time someone reaches out with a kind word it gently guides me back to equilibrium.

These beautiful flowers from Pollo Amiga greeted us at the church

Neither Elkhart, IN or the Roman Catholic Church get a lot of positive press, but they both have a gem in Father Bill Sullivan of St. Thomas the Apostle church. He knew my father well and spoke of him with wisdom and kindness. In his homily at the funeral mass, Father Sullivan mentioned that my father had hoped to have “one more spring”, which I also knew to be true. As spring does unfold, I will try to appreciate it all the more this year.

Father Sullivan (and my grand-niece Makenzie in the foreground)

It was a relief to have one “normal” evening in Elkhart, thanks to my friend, Nancy, who arranged her visit there to coincide with ours. The CE and I spent an evening with her and her parents, Fern and Jerry, and their criminally adorable Yorkie, Rufus.

Fern and Rufie

Fern and Nancy. Resemblance much?

After the long, bleak drive to O’Hare, we had our first encounter with a full-body scanner, and, risk to national security that I am, I was sternly led off to the pat-down area. I always wonder who they allow to sail through security while the TSA ponders my nether regions. To add insult to insult, my camera was apparently stolen from my suitcase on the front end of the trip.

photo credit: Wonkette

We were thrilled to learn that we’d been given first class upgrades on our flight home from Chicago. After an hour and a half wait at the gate, however, the thrill was definitively gone.  At the two-and-a-half hour mark, they de-boarded the airplane for another tense hour, after which we were called back on board with a load of empty promises. Another hour and a half twiddled by. Those of you who know the CE can only imagine how much eyebrow -twisting ensued. Somewhere just short of the six-hour mark, we left the gate and finally headed home.

And it is, indeed, good to be home. Dave, Karen and Victoria predictably spoiled the animals, who greeted our return with hearty yawns.

"Oh, you again?"

Hope puts her best foot forward

Dodger pretends to care.

The Tart refuses to move until Uncle Dave comes back.

It may be an uphill battle to work our way back into the good graces of our pets, but we are well-armed with treats and what looks to be a sunny weekend. Hope yours is a good one!

Final Gifts

My father died yesterday. He was 89 years old and lived a full, happy life. We were not especially close; a product of the “Greatest Generation”, he provided faithfully for his family, and considered the little time he had left over after working ten-hour days, six days a week, to be his own. He was in his element on the golf course and in his public life, where he delighted in the attention he received as a small town celebrity, dispensing gardening advice over the radio waves and to packed audiences of gray-haired ladies at local garden clubs.

You don’t miss what you don’t know, so it was never of great concern to me that I didn’t have much of a relationship with my father. The distance was a comfortable one; he was always cheerful, never mean, rarely angry – he just wasn’t generally present.

This arrangement worked well until about ten years ago, when my mother died and Dad was diagnosed with aggressive prostate cancer a few months later. Perhaps he re-evaluated his life. Perhaps he was lonely at the loss of my mother. Whatever the catalyst, suddenly my father was interested in me. He asked about my children. He actively sought a relationship with my husband.

This was annoying, to say the least. I don’t do well with change.

Now I was having to make room in my life for someone who had never been part of it and I, being the deeply flawed person I am, resented the imposition. Where had he been during my childhood? Where had he been during the early years of my children’s childhoods? My thoughts ran along the lines of an uptight theatre usher: “No late seating allowed!”

Fortunately, my father was patient and persistent, and my husband provided gentle reminders around the theme of “better late than never”. I slowly adjusted to sharing a bit more of my life with my father and hearing about his. He liked to talk, by the way. His stories were many and long. He savored his life, especially now that he’d had a cancer scare which had been barely beaten into remission through an intense course of radiation that left him with nerve damage in his legs and a panoply of other side effects. He never complained. He always smiled.

At one point, I happened to mention I had just read Thomas Merton’s Seven Storey Mountain, which is widely touted as a modern-day parallel to the Confessions of Saint Augustine. He expressed interest; I sent him a copy of the book. Soon after, he paid a visit to his parish priest and asked if he might renew his acquaintance at church. He was heartily welcomed, of course, because God is a much more gracious being than stubborn and resentful adult daughters. God understands “better late than never”, and it is never too late with Him. In his last years, my father attended mass often, sometimes daily, and he became close pals with Father Sullivan.

Dad on our last trip to Las Vegas; March 2010.

The cancer, inevitably, returned. The last year and a half of his life was a blur of ups and downs. He began to end all of our phone conversations with “I love you”, another change that called me deep consternation. In our family, no one ever, ever said I love you (a failing that I may have over-corrected in my own parenting, since my constant declarations of adoration for my children have led them to consider themselves, if anything, somewhat over-loved.) Responding in kind was a tough order. I stumbled over the words; the awkwardness of this new intimacy made me hesitate and stammer. Did I mention that I am deeply flawed?

A final, cruel run of chemotherapy last spring took more out of him than he could bear, and he finally said “enough”. The doctors told him he should probably make the acquaintance of the local Hospice folks, but, characteristically for him, he never wanted to trouble anyone so he managed to the very end without engaging their services. He nearly died before Thanksgiving, but rallied for the holidays and celebrated his 89th birthday in January with a visit to a nearby casino.

He never, ever complained. Not once. He demonstrated a courage and a grace that astounded me and everyone around him. During our last visit in December, he took my husband aside, as he had many times before, to tell him how much he admired him for both success as a businessman and his devotion to me and our children. I often joked that my father had a “man-crush” on the CE. What was probably more accurate was that he saw and admired in the CE was a dedication and fulfillment in marriage and fatherhood that he wistfully wished he could have shared.

The CE and my father - Dad loved having his picture taken with his "man-crush"

A few weeks after his birthday in January, he returned to the hospital with complications from the cancer, which was now on a crash-course, attacking organs throughout his abdominal cavity. The doctors suggested he might have two to three months to live. Working around our scheduled trip to the East coast, the CE and I tried to decide if we should stop through the Midwest to visit Dad on our way to New York or the way home. We chose the latter, thinking he would be in better shape after a chance to rally from the latest surgery. He had begun physical therapy and was hopeful of being released from the hospital soon.

I spoke with Dad almost every day in the past few weeks. With long practice, I was finally improving at our parting “I love you’s”. On Monday, I told him I had stepped into St. Patrick’s Cathedral to light a candle for him and say a prayer. He was deeply emotional and wept with gratitude at this simple indulgence, thanking me profusely. I did not tell him that my prayer was that he not be asked to suffer unduly. On Tuesday, he told me again how grateful he was that I had lit a candle for him. He cried again. “I’ll see you soon, Dad”, I said. “I love you, too.”

On Wednesday morning, I received a call that Dad had gone into renal failure and slipped into unconsciousness. That night, I lay awake, wondering if I should catch a plane in the morning. I drifted into sleep around 6 am and was awakened by a call at 9 – Dad had passed away a half hour before. In the end, it was not him that waited too long, but me. But thanks to his concerted and persistent efforts over the past several years to salvage our relationship, there was nothing left unsaid and no unfinished business to be conducted. He was at peace with God and with his family; a final gift for us all.

Dad was a “celebrity” to the end; his passing was announced as “breaking news” on the Elkhart Truth’s web-site, where a story about him is posted today: http://www.etruth.com/Know/News/Story.aspx?ID=535427

Addendum 46514

Mac/Wordpress/cyberspace gremlins were out in full yesterday, causing the end of my last post to be deleted. So we save the best for last – our visit to the heartland wrapped up with everyone pitching in to make dinner on our last evening:

Makenzie and Amy did prep work

The CE comandeered the fridge (you know he has to be in charge of something at all times!)

Lois made hen-shaped cookies (wherever I go, chickens seem to follow)

The table was set

Amy sampled the spectacular shortcake made by Makenzie

And Maisie sat pretty

Next day, we headed back to the Chicago airport, driving through a bombastic thunderstorm – the kind that convinces you are honestly going to be fried to a crisp with the next bolt of lightning. Then sat more or less patiently in the airport for two, three, four, five hours while our flight was delayed, delayed, delayed. And then – canceled. Of course. Remember, we’re in the Midwest.

We were stranded. Without our luggage. And a customer service line that was almost two blocks long. We opted to grab a cab and go to the nearest airport hotel. At least we got free toothbrushes…

Oh well. It was all worth it. Good times, good food, and we got to make friends with a great dog. It took Maisie a few days to warm up to us, but after a few bites of chicken were surreptitiously dropped under the dinner table, she decided we were worthy. We hope to see her and her family again soon!

Maisie and the CE

Hoosier Daddy?

Well, it’s my blog and I’ll pun if I want to. We flew eastward last week to visit my father in Indiana, a trip that is now safely in the rearview mirror, tornadoes and lightning and delays, oh my! It wouldn’t seem possible, but we managed to leave LAX on time yet arrived at our Chicago O’Hare gate three hours late. There was an hour of circling the airport, then two more idling on the runway due to lightning strikes closing down the gates. Saw this photo from the Daily Mail (UK) of what was going on during our holding pattern:

Lightning simultaneously struck Chicago's Hancock building and Willis (Sears) Tower that evening

Sometimes I think the Midwest just doesn’t like me. Can’t remember the last time I visited that there wasn’t some kind of weather tantrum being thrown. Oh, wait. It’s the Midwest, why would I expect otherwise?

However, another constant of fly-over country is that the folks are more or less unaffected by the cynicism of coast dwellers like myself. Our B&B host, Ann Andre, waited up past 1 am that night for our tardy arrival to Bristol, IN and I can’t really imagine that happening in SoCal or NYC.

My father and niece enjoying the garden at Murphy's Guest House

The CE is not much of a B&B’r but even he could not resist Ann and Gary’s hospitality or the sumptuous breakfasts prepared for us each morning. They even hosted our Indiana family for breakfast at our request on the last morning of the stay – and then declined to let us pay for the meal! (The CE left some $$ on the kitchen counter which they hopefully found after our departure.)

There is such a thing as a free breakfast! But only in Indiana.

While in the Hoosier state, I showed the CE around a bit. For all of Elkhart’s economic woes (see “The Blur That Is Life” post from 20 March 2010) my little hometown (population: 52,647 in 2009) has spiffed up a bit since I lived there. A new “Riverwalk”, consisting of a series of bridges that span the Elkhart and St. Joseph rivers which flow through the community’s downtown area, has brought a sense of cohesiveness to the area and makes for a nice walk on a summer day.

The spot now known as Island Park, located at the confluence of the two rivers, was thought by Indian tribes to be shaped like an elk's heart, thus the name of the town.

Some of our fellow tourists in the park.

While downtown, we walked over to visit the store my father and my maternal grandfather before him operated for a collective fifty or sixty years. Or more? The building itself dates back to 1868 when it served as the site of the community’s first post office.

View from the back of the building

We also checked in with friends Fern and Jerry Hostetler, parents of my childhood friend, Nancy (“Past is Present, May 14, 2010). One thing you can say about the Midwest is that the denizens certainly age well!

Fern and Jerry, looking good!

Another day, we shifted our touring back to the metropolis of Bristol (population 2,000) and visited the Bonneyville Mill, where they’ve been stone-grinding flour continuously for 150 years using power generated from the adjacent Little Elkhart river: http://www.elkhartcountyparks.org/properties_locations/bonneyville_mill.htm

Bonneyville Mill

Lots of wheels and pulleys, etc. Somehow the end product is flour.

Technical difficulties with WordPress just disappeared the rest of this post, so I’ll try to re-construct it later, but wanted to get something up for those of you who are waiting for the weekend edition of Polloplayer…

En Route

The CE and I are currently eating our way to the East coast by way of the Midwest. We’ve never stayed at a bed and breakfast before but given the breakfasts we’re experiencing, there may be more such stays in our future.

We’re staying at the Murphy Guest House, a Victorian Bed & Breakfast in Bristol, IN. If you ever find yourself in the middle of the country and hungry, this is the place to be.

More later…

Past is Present.

When was the last time you saw your best friend from childhood? Quick, call them up, plan a reunion! It will be the most fun you’ve had in a long time.

Nancy and me, circa 1977

If there is data anywhere on the demographics of the population of Elkhart, Indiana, my friend Nancy and I are in the teeny tiny sliver of the statistical pie chart representing the ones who got away. Fled. Flew the coop, as it were. It is not easy to escape Elkhart, as it is not exactly a place that prepares you well for greener grass. Don’t get me wrong. Elkhart has its merits. I just can’t think, at this particular moment,  of what they might be.

And last week, in NYC

Nancy and I met in 6th grade, and it took another ten years of wheedling, conniving, plotting and treachery to effect our getaway. Assistance was provided along the way in the form of what would today be considered “GATE” English classes – reading is believing and we read and read and read books by people who lived in places far beyond the cornfield curtain that separated us from the World, which was, to us, anyplace other than Elkhart.

A high school librarian, sly (and in retrospect, somewhat subversive) fueled our angst by introducing us to authors like Ayn Rand, and we spent whole summers re-imagining ourselves as Dominique Francon or Dagney Taggart. While other teens were tuning in, turning on and dropping out, we were just trying to think of a way to to get as far away, perhaps, as Chicago.

The road not taken, if you can help it (from highwayexplorer.com)

As it always has been and will be, education was the ticket. Nancy made it as far as Indiana University in Bloomington, while I chose Miami University in Oxford Ohio, somewhat specifically because it was nine entire miles beyond the Indiana state line. We were on our way! Four years later, with our relatively useless liberal arts degrees in hand and our parents sufficiently worn down from years of contrarian teen behavior and the grind of tuition payments, (thanks, by the way!) we waved a final, un-opposed goodbye to our Hoosier hometown and moved together to Washington, D.C.

The building where I worked in Washington, D.C., at 1700 Pennsylvania Ave., N.W., just a few blocks away from Taylor's new workplace.

Thirty-some years later, Nancy lives with her husband, Zane, in a town on the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland, which, she says, looks pretty much like Indiana, and the population of which makes Elkhart look like a metropolis. And I wake up every morning in with chickens on my mind, something I probably could have done just as easily and far more economically, had I stayed put in the Midwest. Live and learn, they say…it looks like Elkhart gets the last laugh on us.

What passes for mass transit in Elkhart

Last weekend, however, we were the ones smiling. With best friends, you don’t really notice the time or distance between visits, and somehow nine years seem to have slipped by since the last time Nancy and I spent time together. This visit, however, we finally made it to the Big City: the CE and I, Nancy and Zane spent a wild, windy and wonderful day together in Manhattan.

Nancy and Zane at our apartment in New York.

At the Metropolitan Museum of Art

We visited the High Line

Being a good sport at the Chelsea Market

Boarding the bus - good-bye until next time

It was a wonderful day.  Hopefully we don’t have to wait nine years for the next one!

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one” – C.S. Lewis

Chicken art at the Met!

I think it most likely depicts a Japanese Phoenix

The blur that is life.

Did someone speed up the planet of late? What the hey is going on with not enough hours in the day? I am beginning to be grateful for my accelerating memory loss, as it helps me forget all that I am forgetting to do. This past week has been a busy one. How do we maintain a life AND manage keep up with slimebag Jesse James, slimebag Tiger Woods, healthcare, AND outlaw chickens in Elkhart, Indiana.

Home, sweet home

You’ve all heard of Elkhart, right? Our prez has made it the poster child of the recession via repeated visits. I’m guessing he doesn’t stick around to enjoy the great weather and burgeoning cultural opportunities. Let’s just say that the 18% unemployment rate is not the only thing wrong with the place – I know, because I lived there. And now, just to add salt to the wounds, Elkhart’s finest are rounding up chickens.

Chickens unlucky enough to live in Elkhart

My father, who, inexplicably, has found reasons to love Elkhart for the past 87 years, sent me an article from The Elkhart Truth detailing the chicken “arrests”. Police were apparently called due to “an aggressive rooster” and twenty chickens were taken to the Humane Society of Elkhart County. Let’s hope at least that it’s a no-kill shelter.

In happier news, last weekend was my annual lunch date with young friend Chadd, who recently turned eleven. Chadd has life pretty well figured out. He knows that he wants a dog (hint, hint!) that he has the world’s best mom, that he would like to go to M.I.T, play in the NBA and that he’s going to really miss his brother when Bryson heads off to college in the fall.

Chadd came over to visit the chickens

Then we went out for pizza - he saved the crust for his mom:-)

In other news, the CE kept busy this week by building playground equipment for the chickens. (Only in my world would a sentence like that make sense!)

Chloe oversaw the project

And the chickens came over to inspect the progress

Voila! A chicken jungle jim!

Most importantly, this past week was the long goodbye to Taylor, who is heading off to Washington, D.C. on Monday to start his professional life. Julia stopped by with cookies for him and to schmooze with the pets.

We miss Julia!

Alexandra stopped by, too.

And since T will be wearing a suit and tie to work every day, we spent one day this week updating his wardrobe:

"We love to shop!"

Is he really that handsome or do I just think so because I'm his mom?

In case you were wondering, he has a 32" waist!

We arrived home to find the animals running amok! Dodger was stalking the chickens:

Scary jungle cat!

Then Cody got into the act:

"Let me show you how it's done"

But then, suddenly,  the tables were turned:

No one told the chickens they're supposed to be afraid

Cody hightails it into the bushes, hoping no one sees him.

"I could have gotten them if I wanted to...I just didn't want to"

Last night, we made Taylor’s favorite spaghetti dinner for him. Jessica and Granny joined us. Victoria ate four meatballs! And Taylor loved his going-away gifts.

Luggage love

Victoria, Taylor and Jessica

"If you leave, I'm going with you!"

Dizzy doesn’t want him to leave. And neither do I.  But off he goes – good luck sweetie, and Godspeed…don’t forget to call your mother!

Remember when he looked like this?

We interrupt this blog to bring you more shameless plugs for family members.

I hate to keep moving the chickens off their well-deserved pedestal at the top of this particular food chain (the only one they are ever likely to rule), but family members just keep popping up with blog-worthy achievements. What, you ask, could be more important than watching Hope’s comb and wattle develop? Read on…

Dateline: Elkhart, Indiana. September 12, 2009. The headline in the local Elkhart Truth read  “Voice of Gardening Wisdom”. “

As the host of WTRC’s “Green Thumbs Up” and “Down to Earth” before that, Mike Maloney has helped countless people get rid of the bothersome animals and improve the all-around health of their lawns and gardens for years.But because of WTRC’s change into “Hippie Radio,” Maloney’s show has been discontinued. His last show was Aug. 14, and while he is sad to see it end, he is thankful for the success his shows did have.”

The article went on to celebrate Maloney’s 50-some years of on the radio, dispensing gardening tips to the good people of Elkhart. Time for a well-deserved break from the rigors of on-air fame! Good work, Dad!

Mike Maloney with his tomato plants

Dateline: Zuma Beach, Malibu, CA, September 13, 2009. My stepdaughter, Angela, flew out from her home in NYC to compete in the Nautica Malibu Triathlon’s Classic event, the culmination of a year-long training commitment. Angie handily completed the 1/2-mile swim, 18-mile bike ride, and 4-mile run, while husband Bobby competed in a marathon of sorts, managing 4-year-old Thomas and 16-month old James while trying to get a glimpse of Angela on the triathlon course. Thanks to pit-crew Grandpa (aka The Chicken Emperor, himself), Taylor and Victoria, it was a win-win day for everyone on the team, and a huge accomplishment for Angie. Congrats!

Proud, happy and tired!

Team effort!

Ang, Taylor and Victoria