My Dearest Friends and Family,
As most of you know, Pop died three weeks ago yesterday, but that’s not the reason I am cleaning out the deep freeze. We weathered a mountain hurricane last Friday when Virginia saw the worst wind storm of its history, leaving a record number of homes without power. At my house we were 6 days without electricity and I dug it—reading by candlelight, bucket bathing in the backyard buck naked. I call it residential roughing it. Best of all, I had the whole house and 64 acres to myself, save the wild critters, because my brother took his family to the in-laws where there was A/C.
The storm was wild. My sister-in-law and niece had gone to the store. The lights started blinking and a few seconds later went out. Then my brother got a frantic call from his daughter saying they were trapped on the road by a fallen tree. The call dropped and we couldn't get them again. I looked out the window at a black cloud covering the entire sky and it sounded like a train was going to bust through the gray wall any second. I was sure we were in a tornado. The windows were shaking and the doors moaning and the monstrous trees on our land whipping around. I took my 10-month-old nephew to the basement while my brave (crazy?) brother went out with the 2-year-old, Bryce, to tie down the trampoline, which had "walked" across the yard. All secured, my brother got his chainsaw and left me in the dark with the boys while he went to rescue the women.
Thank god my brother had filled little Bryce’s order before the electricity went out. That clever rascal pulled a kitchen chair under the microwave, crawled up with the big Halloween candy bowl and shouted, “Popcorn! Popcorn!”
As most of you know, Pop died three weeks ago yesterday, but that’s not the reason I am cleaning out the deep freeze. We weathered a mountain hurricane last Friday when Virginia saw the worst wind storm of its history, leaving a record number of homes without power. At my house we were 6 days without electricity and I dug it—reading by candlelight, bucket bathing in the backyard buck naked. I call it residential roughing it. Best of all, I had the whole house and 64 acres to myself, save the wild critters, because my brother took his family to the in-laws where there was A/C.
The storm was wild. My sister-in-law and niece had gone to the store. The lights started blinking and a few seconds later went out. Then my brother got a frantic call from his daughter saying they were trapped on the road by a fallen tree. The call dropped and we couldn't get them again. I looked out the window at a black cloud covering the entire sky and it sounded like a train was going to bust through the gray wall any second. I was sure we were in a tornado. The windows were shaking and the doors moaning and the monstrous trees on our land whipping around. I took my 10-month-old nephew to the basement while my brave (crazy?) brother went out with the 2-year-old, Bryce, to tie down the trampoline, which had "walked" across the yard. All secured, my brother got his chainsaw and left me in the dark with the boys while he went to rescue the women.
Thank god my brother had filled little Bryce’s order before the electricity went out. That clever rascal pulled a kitchen chair under the microwave, crawled up with the big Halloween candy bowl and shouted, “Popcorn! Popcorn!”
Once
we were left alone in the dark with no Thomas the Train on a screen to
captivate him, it saved me. Handing me a piece of popcorn for every
piece he put in his mouth kept him entertained for quite a while. I
buttered his good behavior with a heavy slathering of, “Thank you! What a
sweet boy!” Too, it helped that he never caught on that every time he
looked away I dropped the handful of sweaty pops I’d accumulated back
into the bowl.
Over an hour went by and I realized I don’t know jack shit about babies except they are cute when they aren’t crying. When the little one started wailing I found a half full bottle of milk under a sofa cushion, said a blessing over it that it wasn’t spoiled and stuck it in his mouth. Worked like a charm.
FINALLY, they got home. They had to go all the way around to the back entrance to the 'holler and my brother had to cut several trees out of the road for them to get through. They found the toddler happily rocking in his rocking chair and the baby asleep on my chest--it turned out to be one of the sweetest moments of the difficult week we had been through.
Back to the reason I am here. Sadly so, the finer–than-frog-hair-split-3-ways, popcorn-fart- in-a-hot-skillet, stud-horse-piss-with-the-foam-farted-off Pop, famous for his sayings, has moved on to the heaven he believed so strongly in. He lived his life according to the Bible as he understood it, to make sure he wasn’t left outside the pearly gates. Even if heaven doesn’t exist, the man made a big dent in any bad karma he had accumulated and racked up a lot of brownie points to make life easier on him his next time around. Mangus Hollow, Virginia has lost a treasure and I would even go as far as to say the United States has lost one of the members of the Greatest Generation. I have heard Pop’s war stories a zillion times, but he was a humble man and did not brag much of his military honors. While searching for his discharge papers to apply for VA burial benefits, I came upon newspaper articles about his merit, a certificate for the 58 missions he flew and his purple heart. He truly was a hero of this country.
I’ve got to stop there. If I keep on talking about Pop I’ll be boohooing instead of writing and never finish this long overdue travelogue. I’ve written about so much about him, that if you’ve been with me since the inception of these adventure sharings back in 2001, you know why I loved him so much.
Over an hour went by and I realized I don’t know jack shit about babies except they are cute when they aren’t crying. When the little one started wailing I found a half full bottle of milk under a sofa cushion, said a blessing over it that it wasn’t spoiled and stuck it in his mouth. Worked like a charm.
FINALLY, they got home. They had to go all the way around to the back entrance to the 'holler and my brother had to cut several trees out of the road for them to get through. They found the toddler happily rocking in his rocking chair and the baby asleep on my chest--it turned out to be one of the sweetest moments of the difficult week we had been through.
Back to the reason I am here. Sadly so, the finer–than-frog-hair-split-3-ways, popcorn-fart- in-a-hot-skillet, stud-horse-piss-with-the-foam-farted-off Pop, famous for his sayings, has moved on to the heaven he believed so strongly in. He lived his life according to the Bible as he understood it, to make sure he wasn’t left outside the pearly gates. Even if heaven doesn’t exist, the man made a big dent in any bad karma he had accumulated and racked up a lot of brownie points to make life easier on him his next time around. Mangus Hollow, Virginia has lost a treasure and I would even go as far as to say the United States has lost one of the members of the Greatest Generation. I have heard Pop’s war stories a zillion times, but he was a humble man and did not brag much of his military honors. While searching for his discharge papers to apply for VA burial benefits, I came upon newspaper articles about his merit, a certificate for the 58 missions he flew and his purple heart. He truly was a hero of this country.
I’ve got to stop there. If I keep on talking about Pop I’ll be boohooing instead of writing and never finish this long overdue travelogue. I’ve written about so much about him, that if you’ve been with me since the inception of these adventure sharings back in 2001, you know why I loved him so much.
- Pop telling stories at Thanksgiving
If
you are caught up on the ‘logues, you will recall that all was not
frog-hair fine last time I came to visit. Bluntly put, it was an
emotional disaster and I had said I might never come back. Obviously I
did. Pop was a very peaceful man and to honor his way, the siblings and
sister-in-laws put their differences aside and joined hands in a circle
to weep our collective tears into the abyss he has left behind. That’s
the romantic poet in me painting the scene. What actually happened was
just before walking into the sanctuary for the funeral service, I
grabbed suit collars and bra straps as if they were jerseys and pulled
everybody into a huddle like the starting lineup of a football team
preparing to hit the field. We stacked hands in the center and everyone
committed to civility and unity and to never going back to the way it
was before.
That lasted about as long as it took for the dirt to settle on Pop’s grave. It was enough, though, to get us through living under the same roof while the obligatory ceremonies and receiving of the steady flow of visitors took place. That’s all I’ll say about family stuff this time around.
At age 90, I can’t say Pop’s death was a surprise, but I certainly didn’t expect when I woke up on June 21 that later that day I would have to drop everything to close up shop in Punta del Diablo, throw together a suitcase, board a bus for a five hour trip, nap the night on an airport bench, and spend the next 48 hours working my way home via 5 flights, crisscrossing South, Central and North America. Needless to say, it was a yank on my system, but not so much that I couldn’t gather the material for the expected entertaining public transportation anecdote.
As I mentioned, it took five flights for me to travel the 4,300 miles between Punta del Diablo and Mangus Hollow. For the last leg of the journey I was seated by a smelly teenager, riper than he would have been had the air conditioning on the little twin engine been working. He was gangly, too, and unapologetic for his knees and elbows crossing all over into my space. He fell into a deep sleep and starting doing that reflexive jerking which sent his obtuse triangles into my ribs and thighs. He was so asleep that when the flight attendant came down the aisle with the cart and his size 14 foot was flopped out blocking traffic, that the man across from us had to push his unruly extremity out of the way several times, but it kept falling back out into the aisle. It was like trying to house a jack in a box that has a broken latch. Finally, the gentleman picked up the leg and stuffed it back in the space it had been assigned.
I was about to suggest to the flight attendant that she hand me that sample seatbelt and buckle they use for the preflight pep talk to see if we could strap that leg to something to hold it in place…though I wasn’t offering my leg as that something. Finally, the kid roused and he turns to me to ask, “Was I sleep talking?”
“Excuse me?,” I answered.
“Was I sleep talking?”
“You mean talking in your sleep?”
“Yeah.”
“You better believe it,” I wanted to say, “Look down at that bulge in your shorts. We all heard your elaboration on the beverage service question, ‘What can I get you, Hon’?’”
This dude and I had started off on the wrong foot, anyway. First of all, he wasn’t in his assigned seat and had a bit of an attitude about getting out of mine. He moved across the aisle to someone else’s seat who got on after us and gave him the boot as well, which is how he ended up occupying what would have been my backpack’s seat once we reached cruising altitude. He was obviously not in the mood for musical chairs despite his standby status, which meant he should have been grinning with gratitude that there was a space open for him to plop his bony ass down.
He had some other irritating quirks, too, like pinching the top of his little foil bag of snack peanuts between thumb and forefinger and slinging it violently, for a long time. I’m guessing it was to settle the salt. After all that effort one would think he would delicately pick out individual peanuts for consumption, but no. He turned up the whole bag and downed it as if it were a shot of tequila. Sodium chaser? I don’t know. I had slept a max of 5 hours of the last 48 and I wasn’t in the mood for jabs, pokes, disagreeable smells or illogical, obnoxious behaviors. I wish him well on his journey toward adulthood and I hope he gets a bar of soap, some deodorant and a lesson or two in manners in his stocking this year.
The Mangus Hollow Rehab Center for Mutts and Other Strays has again taken me in (see travelogue 24). Remember Banana Split, Hank, my schizophrenic kennelmate? The one that hides under the furniture at the slightest crinkle of a plastic bag?
I
must congratulate myself for finally passing the sniff test after 99
failed attempts. He now has a bipolar attachment issue and at moments
clings to me like a dryer sheet to a sock in the permanent press cycle.
Some nights I get a slobbery foot bath and a doggie breath facial vapor
treatment before bed to boot. I’m glad. I need a needy companion right
now to sooth the pains of grieving. Thanks, Hank, for being just the way
you are.
Well, I have a half-written travelogue updating life in Uruguay, but I’ll save it for later. What’s next? Back to Dallas on the 19th to take care of business with the house and other practical matters. I will be returning to Punta del Diablo, but it may not be for a month or so. Truthfully, I miss the sunrises and my students, but I’m in no hurry to get back to winter. Hope to see the Dallas friends while I’m in town.
I leave you with a picture taken from the chair Pop was sitting in the moment he passed. The man was in so good with his God that I know he was granted a right so few are given, to choose the time and place from which we depart this earthly life.
As always, much gratitude for reading and for being who you are in my life… with a scoop of love on top, G
That lasted about as long as it took for the dirt to settle on Pop’s grave. It was enough, though, to get us through living under the same roof while the obligatory ceremonies and receiving of the steady flow of visitors took place. That’s all I’ll say about family stuff this time around.
At age 90, I can’t say Pop’s death was a surprise, but I certainly didn’t expect when I woke up on June 21 that later that day I would have to drop everything to close up shop in Punta del Diablo, throw together a suitcase, board a bus for a five hour trip, nap the night on an airport bench, and spend the next 48 hours working my way home via 5 flights, crisscrossing South, Central and North America. Needless to say, it was a yank on my system, but not so much that I couldn’t gather the material for the expected entertaining public transportation anecdote.
As I mentioned, it took five flights for me to travel the 4,300 miles between Punta del Diablo and Mangus Hollow. For the last leg of the journey I was seated by a smelly teenager, riper than he would have been had the air conditioning on the little twin engine been working. He was gangly, too, and unapologetic for his knees and elbows crossing all over into my space. He fell into a deep sleep and starting doing that reflexive jerking which sent his obtuse triangles into my ribs and thighs. He was so asleep that when the flight attendant came down the aisle with the cart and his size 14 foot was flopped out blocking traffic, that the man across from us had to push his unruly extremity out of the way several times, but it kept falling back out into the aisle. It was like trying to house a jack in a box that has a broken latch. Finally, the gentleman picked up the leg and stuffed it back in the space it had been assigned.
I was about to suggest to the flight attendant that she hand me that sample seatbelt and buckle they use for the preflight pep talk to see if we could strap that leg to something to hold it in place…though I wasn’t offering my leg as that something. Finally, the kid roused and he turns to me to ask, “Was I sleep talking?”
“Excuse me?,” I answered.
“Was I sleep talking?”
“You mean talking in your sleep?”
“Yeah.”
“You better believe it,” I wanted to say, “Look down at that bulge in your shorts. We all heard your elaboration on the beverage service question, ‘What can I get you, Hon’?’”
This dude and I had started off on the wrong foot, anyway. First of all, he wasn’t in his assigned seat and had a bit of an attitude about getting out of mine. He moved across the aisle to someone else’s seat who got on after us and gave him the boot as well, which is how he ended up occupying what would have been my backpack’s seat once we reached cruising altitude. He was obviously not in the mood for musical chairs despite his standby status, which meant he should have been grinning with gratitude that there was a space open for him to plop his bony ass down.
He had some other irritating quirks, too, like pinching the top of his little foil bag of snack peanuts between thumb and forefinger and slinging it violently, for a long time. I’m guessing it was to settle the salt. After all that effort one would think he would delicately pick out individual peanuts for consumption, but no. He turned up the whole bag and downed it as if it were a shot of tequila. Sodium chaser? I don’t know. I had slept a max of 5 hours of the last 48 and I wasn’t in the mood for jabs, pokes, disagreeable smells or illogical, obnoxious behaviors. I wish him well on his journey toward adulthood and I hope he gets a bar of soap, some deodorant and a lesson or two in manners in his stocking this year.
The Mangus Hollow Rehab Center for Mutts and Other Strays has again taken me in (see travelogue 24). Remember Banana Split, Hank, my schizophrenic kennelmate? The one that hides under the furniture at the slightest crinkle of a plastic bag?
- Hank out from under the furniture.
Well, I have a half-written travelogue updating life in Uruguay, but I’ll save it for later. What’s next? Back to Dallas on the 19th to take care of business with the house and other practical matters. I will be returning to Punta del Diablo, but it may not be for a month or so. Truthfully, I miss the sunrises and my students, but I’m in no hurry to get back to winter. Hope to see the Dallas friends while I’m in town.
I leave you with a picture taken from the chair Pop was sitting in the moment he passed. The man was in so good with his God that I know he was granted a right so few are given, to choose the time and place from which we depart this earthly life.
As always, much gratitude for reading and for being who you are in my life… with a scoop of love on top, G
