Remember Me

Carry-on bags packed, house-key in wallet, security checkpoints cleared, this family boarded a plane to Philadelphia to celebrate Grandma’s 89^th birthday and Thanksgiving in America … in Riddle Village ... with family: nephews and nieces, fiancées and partners, babies, great grandma and great-grandpa, and Uncle Steve in memory … all of us, together, in a small reserved room for a few hours.

First, there was a toast to the matriarch, unprepared but easy as a hug … then some wine and small talk, many great pictures … and word that this family is about to get bigger, though not officially announced. Good times. This all might not happen again, but what does? We’re here for now.

Later, after some cake and then football in the parking lot, we’re all back in Grandma’s overheated apartment -- a running joke. Grandpa’s been wheeled to his room above -- we’ll go up and say goodnight later, after some weird variation of Chinese checkers. But for now, Grandma sits on her couch, surrounded by affection, opening her birthday cards and passing them around the room. That’s not something people do anymore, and there’s some winks and smiles. But we read them diligently and pass them around the room … sweet sentiments, including a few from some who probably haven’t done such a thing in years.

But then one card makes the rounds and it gets held a little longer by everyone, even the cool cats, I imagine. It’s from Grandpa, upstairs now. Probably chosen with help from Aunt Sue or my Mom, something about finding an angel and marrying her. But it’s signed at the end by Grandpa, the man of few words, getting fewer these days … two words: “Remember me.”

After the living room ceremony, Grandma puts all the cards in a basket and displays them on the organ-piano that Grandpa rarely plays anymore … but when he does, no mistakes, still.

We wrap up the evening with more laughter and small talk … some say goodbye that night, some the next day … eventually everyone checks out, leaving Riddle Village, back to our daily lives.

I’m back in L.A. now, hoping we all remember Thanksgiving 2010 … remember family, even when it’s not present … remember that true love is forever and a lifetime … remember that even when it’s whispered in a scrawl, it shouts. Nothing else matters.

Politics and Math

The American People. Who are they, and why are they constantly cited as backup to every politician's claim to righteousness, as in "the American people have spoken" or "the American people don't want this (healthcare reform) or that (environmental regulation), etc.?"

It's revolting. "Patriotism" as the last refuge of these scoundrels.

The American people are diverse and divided, angry and apathetic, confused and complicit in this mess. But they are most certainly not a singular voice. Of course, "American people" is often just the new code for "people like me." And that's a joke, too, because while these cynical hacks may be referencing white males and pit-bull moms, they are conveniently side-stepping the fact that each one of their bank accounts would be a lottery win for those they claim to speak for.

The latest election was supposedly a referendum. I beg to differ. Here's some very simple math, provided in a New Yorker article by Hendrik Hertzberg (an American person).  He notes that in 2008, about 53 percent of the electorate opted for Democratic candidates. In 2010, about 53 percent opted for Republicans.

But in 2008, 120 million people voted in the Congressional elections (130 million in the Presidential election). In this year's supposed landslide reversal, 75 million people voted. That's 45-55 million people who, energized two short years ago, didn't bother this time around. I'm guessing it made a difference.

Hertzberg goes on to say: "The members of this year's truncated election were whiter, markedly older and more habitually Republican." In other words, the angry, scared, crazy folk showed up.

But that ain't my America. And it won't be the pseudo movement known as the Tea Party's for long. Math is not on their side. But they don't have much need for math or any other science. In the meantime, time may not be on our side.

Making A Mix

"Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy. Music is the electrical soil in which the spirit lives, thinks and invents." — Beethoven


I listen to music. A lot. I like to discuss it and I like to zone out on it. I like to share it, too.

So I make mixes. Mixes for road trips and running. Mixes for the deck. For workmates. Mixes for my sister and Mom. Mixes for friends who have come and gone. Mixes.

The current one (that has me on headphones approaching midnight) is for my sister turning 37 this month. It's got Charlie Mars, MIA, Joe Pug, Tina Dico, Tokyo Police Club, The Tallest Man on Earth, The Tragically Hip, DOM, The Standard and the song of the year: "We Used to Wait" by Arcade Fire.

It's also got a track iTunes and the bloggers don't have yet: a song by my daughter Remy. She overdubbed it on an iPhone. Yes, she "two-tracked" herself strumming and singing a song that is way too Galaxy 500 for a 10 years old. (I know, I've lost you all. All three of you.) It's haunting and sweet. Maureen can be heard clanking dishes in the kitchen in the background. But you'll have to wait for the mix to go viral.

Until that time, click here to see Arcade Fire perform We Used to Wait live. It's why I listen to music. A lot.

Women & Spirit

The Jesuits have some very cool dudes. One, Father George, married Maureen and me, then took my mom on a motorcycle ride up the coast of Santa Cruz after the reception. And there's Tom Powers, who has since moved on from the Jesuits, who kept the party going during a lull at some big event. We got to talking over gin and tonics and tunes about those decrepit priests in the news, historical hypocrisy, modern paralysis, and all forms of fairly tales used to explain away the reality on the ground.

But writing as a freelancer for Mount Saint Mary's College's magazine has been an unexpected opportunity to interview people whose faith is pointed in all the right places, namely helping the poor, healing the sick and taking on social injustices. It's easy to smirk at the headlines and shake our heads. It's quite another to dedicate one's life to changing the reality on the ground like Sister Peg, rest in peace.

I wrote a story this week about "Women & Spirit," an historical traveling exhibit about the unsung sisters who have worked to change this nation's cultural and social landscape through their faith, yes, but also through action. The exhibit is coming to Mount Saint Mary's next year, and I look forward to taking the family to see it and meeting the people I interviewed.

I'll post a link to the story when it's published.

Ike

We said goodbye to Ike yesterday.

Fourteen years ago, he came out of nowhere, crying at our window, losing hair and emaciated. A lost cause. We fed him on the porch, and then each day he waited languidly in the afternoon sun until we returned from work. One day, he ventured inside, we didn't say no, and that was that.

He blessed us with his prehistoric soul. Half-lidded, electric eel black, with a brownish goatee somehow always wet. Most everyone thought he looked mean. No doubt, he liked to lounge on the counter and take the occasional swipe at the unsuspecting. But he also snuggled under the covers at night.

Ike faced the very real possibility of death early. And when his latest ailments (thyroid, kidney, old age) made him increasingly weak, it was clear: he'd face it again. His thing was survival. Down to seven pounds, he stalked water faucets instead of birds and mice.

I'm grateful we shared these 14 years with him. The smallest panther deserved some peace. His hard-scrabble beginnings did not require a troubled ending.

So we held him yesterday morning as he drifted off into that timeless savanna from where he came.

IKE

a day in 1995 — Nov. 8, 2010