RSS

Category Life

Now You Know Where I Get It From

By Brian Filed in Life Tagged with August 25th, 2011 @ 11:36 am

This is a picture of my father taken one Christmas Eve sometime in the late ’70s. Today would have been his 75th birthday. He died six months shy of his 60th birthday on a very snowy Saturday in February, 1996. So much changed when he died, but when the shock subsided, there were as many changes for the better as for the worse. Life is not always the linear and neatly arranged narrative we like to think it is. Now that I have reached an age where the loss of a parent is no longer a novelty among my peer group, I often see people who can’t or won’t be honest about that. I never had an easy relationship with my father. He didn’t think much of me, and as I got older I resented that more and more. Which is not to say there wasn’t love between us, or that everything was always bad, it’s simply to say that things were complex. Which is what life really is.

Whenever I look at this picture, it never fails to make me laugh, and it always helps me remember the things about my father that I liked and the times that we all enjoyed. There were plenty of good Christmas Eves like this. He had a penchant for stealing sunglasses, he was always willing to look silly wearing a hat, and his ability to make the best off-the-cuff wise-ass remarks to anyone at all was without peer. It makes me wish that he had lived to know his grandchildren, because I’m sure Charlotte would have loved him. There are plenty of things I don’t miss at all, but the wonderful, horrible power of time has helped to dull those edges somewhat.

I hope that when I am gone, if anyone cares to remember me, they will do so with enough equanimity to appreciate the good and the bad, because there’s plenty of both to go around. And plenty of pictures like this to help.

EmailStumbleUponRedditFacebookTwitterGoogle+Share

Related Posts:

The Moving Finger Writes, And Having Writ, Moves On

By Brian Filed in Life Tagged with , , , , August 9th, 2011 @ 5:13 pm

If I can manage to do so without turning into a total loser, I wanted to say just a couple more things about my cats, and then I promise we’ll move on. Back to usual business next week.

When I realized that Harry was gone forever and not just MIA, it wasn’t hard to start thinking about him in the past tense, and it wasn’t hard to frame our relationship in that mix of golden hazy memory and crystal-clear anecdotes. The subject had not been too far from my mind ever since Maynard died last year. The two of them were close enough in age that Maynard’s loss meant Harry’s would come sooner than later. Not that I was waiting for Harry to die, but there was a readily-transferrable set of feelings and thoughts. Indeed, I sort of had this sense of Harry’s invincibility, and as last week dragged on I was still not convinced that he wasn’t going to show up at the door, tired and hungry. On Friday, though, when I got out of the car and Murray wasn’t waiting at the door, the whole bottom dropped out of everything. It was the proof of one unthinkable scenario and the sudden shocking appearance of another. Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

It is much, much harder to find the right context for Murray. He brought me so much happiness in this past year, which was otherwise so mindbogglingly unhappy, but that time is the blink of an eye to me. I can remember how sure I was when Maynard came to live with us that this tiny kitten would not survive, and Harry’s beginnings were equally uncertain, but I never gave so much as a fleeting thought that Murray would be anything other than forever. And now, instead of collecting years of memories of him, he is consigned to be nothing but a footnote: “Remember that kitten we had that got eaten by the coyote years ago, what was his name?” We are all forgotten eventually, of course, but the transition is especially abrupt this time, and so undeserved.

I have shared my life with over a dozen different cats, and I’ve realized that the one I had the most in common with was Lola. Lola was a tough room. She didn’t like many people, she didn’t like the other cats foisted upon her by us, and she was generally unhappy about her situation most of the time. She lived in the shadow of her sister Esme, and then Maynard, and finally Harry, all of whom were better loved and more interesting cats. Life was thrust upon her without much consideration for her own desires, and she was usually asked to put up with something inconvenient or uncomfortable for someone else’s benefit. As she grew older, her resilience for these things grew thin, and she spent most of her last months avoiding the world. Finally, she simply opted to get sick and die, but even then it did not go smoothly. Just like Murray, she deserved more than she got, especially from me.

My own broken heart won’t mend much more, but I know that nothing ends here except the time of Harry and Murray. That other cats will arrive and find cherished places in our personal history. That even though Murray will never have much of a story of his own, he basks in Harry’s reflected glory. And my Harry, my big orange galoot, will abide with me until all of us are long, long forgotten.

EmailStumbleUponRedditFacebookTwitterGoogle+Share

Related Posts:

Til Valhalla, My Friends

By Brian Filed in Life Tagged with , , August 5th, 2011 @ 11:36 am

UPDATE 8/6: It is worse than I ever imagined. Murray is also gone. I am certain it is the work of the coyote that we have seen in the past. The neighbor’s cat also disappeared a few weeks ago.

When I posted this, it was with the acknowledgement that Harry had died as he had lived: in a world of hunters and prey. He had been the successful predator for years and years, and what little solace there was to be had in thinking about him being gone came from the idea that his turn in that circle had come.

But I am simply crushed to lose little Murray. He was still a kitten, really, only a little more than a year old. I let him out yesterday because I could not be sure about Harry’s disappearance, not expecting that something might happen in the middle of the day. But two cats do not wander off in the space of a couple of days, especially not these two cats, who never ventured out of the sight of the back door, and my suspicions about the animal in the woods have been confirmed in the most horrible way.

Harry was 13 years old. I will always cherish and celebrate the life we had together. For Murray, though, I will never be able to atone for the guilt of cutting his life so short.

EmailStumbleUponRedditFacebookTwitterGoogle+Share

Related Posts:

Please Rise For The Singing Of Our National Anthem

By Brian Filed in Life, Links, Misc, Videos Tagged with , , , , , , July 19th, 2011 @ 11:30 am

When I was a very little boy, probably about 4 years old, I used to love to read a book of classic poetry that my parents had, and one of the poems I liked the best was “The Star Spangled Banner” by Francis Scott Key. It’s one of the very first things I ever memorized (though I have long since forgotten the verses we don’t sing). What was always a little tantalizing to me, though, was the note in the book that said “sung to the tune of ‘To Anacreon In Heav’n”. The poetry book yielded neither further explanation nor the words to that song, and my parents, who were the Ultimate Authority on everything when I was that age, had no idea what the hell I was talking about. Over the years, I would often see mention that the tune of the national anthem came from “an old drinking song”, but, again, no specifics.

Though not exactly a burning desire, I have wondered throughout my life just what that song was and how it came to furnish such an unsingable melody to taunt and defeat so many sporting event attendees and professional singers alike. So I was utterly tickled to come across this video of the Georgia Tech Glee Club performing a suitably raucous rendition of the best-known unknown drinking song in American history:

EmailStumbleUponRedditFacebookTwitterGoogle+Share

Related Posts:

At Least I’ve Got Company

By Brian Filed in Life, Misc Tagged with June 6th, 2011 @ 12:12 pm

EmailStumbleUponRedditFacebookTwitterGoogle+Share

Related Posts:

Rapturous

By Brian Filed in Life Tagged with , , May 27th, 2011 @ 12:11 pm

What with all the hubbub of The (Secret) Rapture and such over the weekend, I neglected to make mention of Charlotte’s 10th birthday, which was Saturday. Here she is wearing her costume for this year’s dance recital, which also happened to be on her birthday.

The music begins for our long, slow dance of goodbye, and even though the steps right now are barely even visible, I feel them as we move through our days. If I hold your hand too tightly sometimes, Charlotte, it is only because I can sense the space between yours and mine now, and I know we will have to let go sooner than either of us realizes. Spin with me around the world once again, before my feet are too heavy to go on and yours are too light to stop. Though my stumbles are so many, I hope they will not hold you down.

EmailStumbleUponRedditFacebookTwitterGoogle+Share

Related Posts:

The Poop On “Shit”

By Brian Filed in Life, Links, Misc Tagged with , , , , , May 11th, 2011 @ 11:34 am

My child has inherited her mother’s potty mouth. Even when she was a very small child, she could be counted on to let loose with a choice blasphemy at inopportune moments, but these days seems intent on swearing as often as she draws breath. Now, I will readily acknowledge that I, too, engage in my share of obscenity, but lately I am coming in third in the rankings and would likely be voted off the island if we were contestants on a swearing competition reality show (I can already imagine Spike TV putting together the details for “Filthiest Mouth In America”).

Most swear words in English are ancient ones that found their way to Albion with the Saxons or the Romans or the Vikings, although they probably only supplanted even earlier words favored by the Druids. This post at Mental Floss says that people have tried to retcon the word “shit” into being a 19th century acronym standing for “Ship High In Transit”, not unlike the way others have tried to make “fuck” stand for “For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge” (or, even less likely, “First Universalist Church of Kennebunk”). But both of these words belong to the mysts of antiquity, as “shit” is a direct descendant of the Old English “scite” (which means…well, shit), and “fuck” seems to be direct from the Old Swedish word for “penis”, with a little Middle Dutch thrown in for variety.

However, not all shit is created equal. Slate’s Paul Collins discovered that the expression “shit-faced”, meaning intoxicated, doesn’t really have anything to do with passing out in your own poop, but comes from a completely different direction — the word “shittle”, which refers to being flighty or inconsistent and apparently has nothing to do with feces. In fact, he introduces us to an expression which I fear may turn into a regular occurrence in this household — “Shittle-ti-dee” — along with a whole shit-sack of related terms. This particular etymology can’t be blamed on the Germanic ancestors, it’s Scottish…and they know a thing or two about getting shit-faced, for sure.

EmailStumbleUponRedditFacebookTwitterGoogle+Share

Related Posts:

Safe From The Clutches Of Stephen Harper

By Brian Filed in Life Tagged with , , May 3rd, 2011 @ 12:04 pm

Amongst all the other breaking news items of the last several days, I completely forgot to mention that Friday, April 29th, was Furry Murray’s first birthday. Charlotte took this picture of Fuwwy Muwwy and Daddy cuddling in the Comfy Chair to commemorate the occasion.

Now that spring is here, and Stephen Harper is busy in Canada with his evils plans, Murray finally got his wish and has been going outside for the past six weeks or so. He had been lobbying for it pretty hard all through the long, snowy winter, even when Harry was saying “fuck that” to going out. Harry started going back outside even before the ground was completely bare — poor old kitty had a tough winter going stir-crazy in the house — but I resisted Murray’s entreaties until there was no more snow. On the couple of occasions when a little early spring snowfall coated the yard, he discovered exactly why he had to wait. Ditto for going out in the rain. Harry has never minded being out in the rain, but Murray quickly discovered that discretion was the better part of valor.

Like Harry, Murray doesn’t go too far from the back yard, and when we call him he comes running at a full gallop, so I am not concerned that he’ll run off or get himself into a sticky situation other than the inevitable run-ins with the big black-and-white kitty who lives in the house behind us. Unlike Harry, who has never been a very good jumper, Murray loves to get up onto the little roof over the cellar door, and I imagine at some point he might decide to climb a tree. With his enormous bushy tail, Murray looks an awful lot like a squirrel.

I had hoped to shoot a little video for you of Murray scampering about outdoors, but so far he hasn’t cooperated. I’ll keep trying.

The best part is that even though he is all grown up, Murray is still my cuddle-buddy. As you can see in the picture, he still gets right up on top of my chest and snuggles right in just like he did when he was tiny. He’s not a very big cat, and I don’t know if he’ll bulk up as he really moves into his adult form — all that fluff hides a slight beastie. Unbeknownst to Murray, his next big adventure is going to be a visit to the cat groomer; he’s not crazy about being brushed and has developed matted fur in some places that are difficult to get to because of his resistance to the brush. Push is going to come to shove, though, and I’ll be more than glad to let a professional do the dirty work.

Meanwhile, I’m keeping a careful lookout for any hungry Canadian politicians.

EmailStumbleUponRedditFacebookTwitterGoogle+Share

Related Posts:

It’s The Final Countdown

By Brian Filed in Amuse, Life, Links, Misc Tagged with , , , , , April 20th, 2011 @ 9:29 am

As I have mentioned before, these guys are pretty sure that May 21 is the beginning of the end of the world. It also happens to be my daughter Charlotte’s 10th birthday. Strictly coincidence, I am sure.

So, with only 30 days and a few hours until such a momentous occasion, I have added that countdown timer, which will appear right up until the very moment Zombie Jesus makes his appearance to take all the believers with him to his Magical Zombie Fun Park, leaving the rest of us to have a little birthday cake and ice cream with the kid.

Amusingly enough, today yesterday is the date in the movie “Terminator” that Skynet, the robotic security system, becomes self-aware and begins to destroy humanity, which is referred to as “Judgement Day”.

Now, for your listening pleasure, here is the immortal hair-band Europe live in concert with their timeless hit, “The Final Countdown”:

EmailStumbleUponRedditFacebookTwitterGoogle+Share

Related Posts:

Getting In Touch With My Feminine Side

By Brian Filed in Life, Links, Misc Tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , April 18th, 2011 @ 11:42 am

Not only does this help me with my inner woman, it also helps me with my inner geek. This post at a crafters’ forum features a cross-stitch sampler anyone can make that includes a bit of modernity that actually can come in handy: displaying your home wireless network’s SSID and WEP encryption key. Now your houseguests who arrive with their laptops will feel right at home logging onto your network. This is actually useful enough that I would consider suggesting it to some of my LOL’s as a way to help them keep this information at hand. Just one carp, dearie: everybody should be using WPA2 instad of WEP for their encryption.

Tina Fey’s new book, Bossypants, is out and getting good reviews. Blogger Melody Godfred took a few minutes to transcribe part of the book, “A Mother’s Prayer For Her Child”, which speaks to the existential dread felt by mothers (and fathers) about their daughters’ futures:

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

While we’re talking books, Salon’s Laura Miller reviewed a new book by author Wendy McClure called “The Wilder Life: My Adventures in the Lost World of ‘Little House on the Prairie’”. McClure set out to “let her calico sunbonnet freak flag fly” by visiting some of the real-life places where Laura Ingalls Wilder and her family lived. As you know, we hold Laura close to our hearts in this home, so I can empathize with her fandom, even if I was not a sunbonnet-wearing little girl in the 1970s. The book sounds like fun for anyone who is a “Little House” aficionado.

This video of comedian Julia Sweeney telling the tale of finding herself unexpectedly having to explain sex to her eight-year-old daughter made the rounds online a couple of weeks ago. It’s longish (about 10 minutes), but sweet and funny and exactly as uncomfortable as one might expect:

This is a conversation that won’t have to happen this way for us, because Bridget and I have always been pretty straight with Charlotte about the anatomical elements of her own body. She’s known about her own uterus and eggs and stuff like that for a long time. She’s also had at least a vague idea of “sex” (in the sense of “this is how two people make a baby”) for several years, though without some of the embellishments. And a steady diet of tween TV has given her enough of the boyfriend-girlfriend story. Now that the three of us stand on the cliff’s edge of beginning puberty, there will be the need to expand the conversation a little, but it shouldn’t ever have to play out like Julia Sweeney and the frogs.

Even though I like to think of myself as being far less unwilling to engage with aspects of femininity than most of the men I know, the hard reality for me is that this next phase of Charlotte’s growing up involves a cleaving between us as father and daughter. I can sympathize but I don’t have any real insight or perspective into the details of becoming a woman. It is simply part of her life I cannot share. I very sincerely wish that the trust and openness we’ve always had about everything else will help to minimize the separation, but it will always be there. The Tina Fey poem wishes for “a rough patch between twelve and seventeen” for a daughter to find that path deliberately but slowly, instead of the torment of teenager-hood; I can’t even begin to guess at the depth of the angst that those years might deliver upon a girl child, I can only start trying to find a way to watch from a distance.

EmailStumbleUponRedditFacebookTwitterGoogle+Share

Related Posts:

Read previous entries
Read more recent entries

All Original Content Copyright © BrianKaneOnline
All Other Content Copyright © Its Original Authors

Built on Notes Blog Core
Powered by WordPress

Switch to our mobile site