Category Archives: Family

The Weekend

Lughnasa                                                 Full Harvest Moon

Kate’s out in Denver visiting the grandkids while Mark and I hold a visa watch, waiting for some word from the mysterious world of Saudi bureaucracy.

Yesterday I took a trip to Duluth to deliver 3 pounds of honey in payment for use of the image on this year’s Artemis Honey labels.  Kenspeckle Press provided the image through a friend of Mark Odegard, Rick Allen.

Mark turned this image into a beautiful 2011 label for Artemis Hives.  Thanks, Mark and Rick.

Today I moved books off a bookshelf, moved the bookshelf and repositioned a weight rack.  Later I broke ground for garlic planting and split the bulbs into cloves for planting tomorrow.

I also watched the Vikings.  How about those Vikings?  May be a short season for me.  I’m a fair weather fan.

Latin, groceries, planting garlic.  All await tomorrow.

 

Life Lesson Learned

Lughnasa                                               Waxing Harvest Moon

Looks like Mark was more right.  Not sure yet, because all the data isn’t in, but he understands the culture of English language schools and I don’t.  Life lesson learned here.  The lesson?  20 years of experience beats book learnin’ and casual travel.  Sorta makes sense, doesn’t it?

No matter what happens with the visa, Saudi situation, Mark’s time here will come to a close in the next few weeks.  We leave for our cruise in October and he doesn’t have a job here.  I hope he still ends up in Saudi.  We’ll see.

Mark and I are here by ourselves for the next 5 days.  Kate got on the 7:40 am Northstar this morning, headed for the Hiawatha Line and MSP.   Having the Northstar close by has dramatically changed getting to and from the airport.  Now, we can board a morning commuter train, catch the light rail to the airport and when we get back, we can reverse field and end up within a short drive of our home.  Just like a big city.

Growing Up

Lughnasa                                        Waxing Harvest Moon

Mark’s (my brother) days here will end on September 16th provided the Saudi visa process works and it’s on track, though a track with a terminus very near his flight date.  He flies from Minneapolis to Chicago, Chicago to Amman, Jordan and onto Riyadh.

He will spend a few days in Riyadh in an orientation program for new teachers at the English Gate Academy after which he reports to his teaching post.  He asked for Hal’in, but his assignment is not yet certain.

We sat on the couch tonight, after having watched some TV, and did a favorite family thing, trading memories of when we were young, especially memories we did not share.

I told him of climbing up on a chair to find, to my dismay, a door knob above a shelf I could not see over at age 3 or 4.  It looked like a big eye looking back at me.

In the basement of the same place, an apartment building where I lived with Mom and Dad, there was a coal chute. (“Coal?” Mark asked, a bit wide eyed at this ancient heat source.) The coal room connected to the big pot-bellied furnace through an augur that would turn on whenever the thermostat called for more heat.  In other words unpredictably.

When I was down there with Mom while she did the laundry, I would play.  Until the coal augur came to life.  It was loud and came on with surprising swiftness.  The furnace would hiss as the new coal fed the fire.  Made me think of a dragon.

Mark remembered sleeping in Mom and Dad’s bedroom until he was 5 or so, then moving upstairs in our house on Canal Street.  When I went off to college, he took my corner room, the one with a window facing west and another facing south.  Out that west facing window, at midnight, a Nickle Plate train would rumble down the tracks, and sound its warning signal for the crossing on Monroe Street only two and a half blocks from our house.  Mark remembered the train, too.

I’m not sure why I recall this and I don’t know if it was true, but I believe the last steam engine in US pulled its train through our town, sounding its steam whistle every midnight.  Right there on Monroe Street.

Fall-ing

Lughnasa                                                  Waxing Harvest Moon

As August slides away and the sky shifts its colors toward deeper hues, an inner barometer detects higher emotional pressures.  The atmosphere weighs more, cuing those momentary pauses, breaks in attention.  It may signal a storm ahead, but more likely the prediction carries gray skies and mist, perhaps early morning fog.

Melancholy comes calling this time of year, an acquaintance, maybe a friend, of long standing.  Mom died in October, 1964, 47 years ago, a year longer than she lived.

Her death came at different moments in life for all of us.  Mark, 5 at her death, has few memories of her; she lingers in his past as a faint spirit, an enigma.  Mary, 12, has more, a young girl heading into adolescence, becoming a woman, missed the guidance a mature woman could give as she made that critical transition.  At 17 my life had already begun to pull away from the family, in my senior year of high school, the last, college plans in the making, I had her longest of all, only a brief time less than Dad.

When that dark angel comes, and he comes for us all, finality is the hardest lesson to absorb.  No more mom.  No more.  Memories, yes, but memories fade and change as life goes on and here all three of us are, 47 years later.  47 years.  A lifetime.

Why a friend?  How could melancholy be a friend?  Well, in this way.  As life patters on, this event following the other, we can become accustomed to its rhythms, lost in its small decisions and its casual absorption of our energy.  So lost, in fact, that we forget the Self that carries us forward, the Self into which we live and which lives itself into us.

Melancholy can turn us away from the day to day and cause us again to walk down the stairs leading to what Ira Progoff calls the Inner Cathedral.  We often forget this quiet place within, our own sanctuary, and melancholy can call us to visit it again.

So, yes, melancholy can be a friend of the Self, a guide back into the depths and resources of your Self.

All Visas All the Time

Lughnasa                                                  Waxing Harvest Moon

Visas.  All visas all the time.  Got a fluttery batch of e-mails and phone messages, all received after Travisa’s office’s had closed.  OMG.  We won’t get the documents to you in time.  OMG. Solved by reminding them that we sail on Oct. 16th, not Sept. 16th.  Oh.  All better now.

Mark and Saudi Arabia.  A police clearance popped up as a new piece of paper.  How to get it?  Lots of opinions.  FBI background check?  BCI state level clearance.  Will this torpedo the application?  Looked like it for awhile, then a phone, again, to Travisa in D.C.

A local police clearance?  Plenty good enough.  Mark now has a Good Neighbor certificate from the Anoka County Sheriff stating that he has committed no crime since he got here.  Good to know.

In in the interim Mark had discovered that the Saudi Embassy closed this week to celebrate Eid, the end of Ramadan.  But. Travisa again.  Nope.  We can get it done in time.  Send us the material by Friday and we’ll get it done.

A series of this’s and that’s, frustrating, but not impossible.

International travel, all fun, all the time.

Is There a Prophet In the House?

Lughnasa                                                                                                  New Harvest Moon

NB: prophet is a gender neutral word as I use it.

Kate.  Always ahead of her time.  When Kate was in high school in Nevada, Iowa, she arranged a deal to take most of her senior classes at nearby Iowa State.  She’d run out of classes in the high school, at least classes that could keep her interest.  In her senior year, just as the deal was to kick in, the high school changed their mind.  Later, as a nurse anesthetist, she insisted on better pay for her position at Mt. Sinai.

After that, too long in the role of helper, she decided, at age 34, to go to medical school.  The medical school thought that since she was already a doctor’s wife, she should be happy with that.  She graduated and became a board certified pediatrician in the best medical delivery system in the US.

After a serious illness and poor treatment at the hands of her then partners at Metropolitan Pediatrics, Kate moved to Allina, its Coon Rapids’ clinic.  While there she became frustrated with corporate medicine and chose to become lead physician for her group.  Over her time there she integrated pediatric and family practice offices, initiated (by doing it herself) after hours care and agitated for a better deal for primary care docs in general.

Now, several years after she pioneered it, Coon Rapids’ peds has regular after hours clinic and the Clinic has an urgent care unit providing after hours non-emergency medicine.  Kate works in the urgent care, part-time.

She has been tireless in haranguing me about the stupidity of pediatricians treating psychiatric problems for which they have little to no training. (see today’s Star-Tribune)  The arguments about vaccine that I read in this months Scientific American I first heard over the breakfast table.  She also campaigns against the overuses of anti-biotics, the over prescription of pain-killers and, most passionately of all, the need for a single-payer health system.  An equitable distribution of health care services has been at the top of her need list for a long time.

She is a prophet in a system that, though excellent in its care, has become sclerotic in its administration.  The current over managed (way too many administrators with way too much power) model, corporate medicine as she styles it, focuses its efforts on the bottom line (money), on standardization (easier to manage), on patient satisfaction (results would be a better yardstick) and on turning physicians into employees.  Those who run these systems should listen to this practical, intelligent critic and change their ways.

Pulling Hair

Lughnasa                                                                 Waning Honey Extraction Moon

Over to Carlson Toyota this morning.  Why?  To have Kate sign over the Tundra to me, as a gift.  The purpose?  Avoid sales tax on the title transfer.  My name alone is on the Rav4, for no particular reason except that’s how we did it that day.  Her’s alone was on the Tundra.  We used the Tundra as a trade-in.  QED.  Right?  Enough to make me pull out my hair and shout.

I’m a little short of equilibrium as we try to get Mark through the visa process for his job in Saudi Arabia.  A routine physical turned up an abnormality.  That means seeing a specialist.  Seeing a specialist means costs and delays.  The visa itself takes time to process and he needs to be over there by September 14th.  Time is getting short.  A lot of juggling here and there.  Kate’s called in favors to move the process along.

At this rate and given my starting point I’ll have no hair left by the first week of September.

Drawing Blood

Lughnasa                                                                           Waning Honey Extraction Moon

Took Mark in for a counseling session at 8 am and then over to Allina for lab work.  He said the phlebotomist kept putting on more tubes to collect blood. “I’m woozy,” he said, as he drank a cup of hot chocolate.  After this, a fasting blood draw, we went to IHOP and had breakfast.

He’s been here a while and I’ve gotten used to having him around, but this job in Saudi Arabia is a strong next step for him, a chance to reassert himself as both a teacher and a world traveler.  His anxiety about it is normal, new job, new town, new people, new culture, but those are also all the things that make this an exciting opportunity.

Easy for me to say, of course, I’ll be home here in Andover.  Still.

 

Happy Birthday, Kate

Lughnasa                                                          Waning Honey Extraction Moon

“Through the years, a man (sic) peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, tools, stars, horses and people. Shortly before his death, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the image of his own face.” – Jorge Luis Borges

As the sun retreated behind the spinning earth, Kate and I sat outside at Buona Sera, an Italian restaurant in Champlin.  There was an umbrella over our table and pit a pat from time to time fell acorns, the harvest of fall already underway.  Kate’s birthday itself is tomorrow, but she works, so we celebrated today.

This is my 22 birthday celebration with her and I look forward to 22 more.  We met each other at a point where both of us needed some good luck.  We found it.

There is something satisfying about a dinner with a long time friend, especially on an important event like the day of her birth.  She is a long time friend now and my long term love.  There is a sort of patina that gathers with age and repetition, perhaps akin to the wabi-sabi aesthetic of the Japanese.  After long use, an item, say a humble tea scoop or a water ladle, takes on the character of the one who scoops tea or ladles water with it.

Our bodies, and our faces, are the same; so are the relationships most dear to us.  They take on the character of the two who create them, a lustre of careful attention and loving touch.

As the sun set, we listened to the acorns, drank our coffee and enjoyed the patina of our life together.

Charred meat, cooked on propane, outside

Lughnasa                                                          Waning Honey Extraction Moon

The herd tramped out to Roseville, to Warren’s second house, a gift to be that never found its receiver.  A broad curve of land on a first ring suburban street holds this late 40’s, early 50’s rambler with dark wood, scrolled book cases, formica kitchen counters and an outdoor fireplace built into a concrete patio.  It was someone’s dream, back in the long ago, the second millennium, after the second Great War when we all wanted to huddle down, have kids, read the newspaper and go to church.

This evening it housed this a congregation of graying, even whitening men, who met to discuss at Warren’s call, gratitude.  Who did we feel grateful for in our lives?  Who reached out to us and saw something special in us, something we may not have seen in ourselves?  Who touched us?  Three wrote letters to dead men:  a seminary father figure, a partner in a business, a great-grandfather of many gifts.  One wrote to or about his father, another to his brother.  Two letters were written to former bosses.

We had charred meat, cooked on propane outside, as men’s dinners must be on quiet summer evenings when the weather still has warmth.  We ate together, swapped stories of Maine,  Saudi Arabia, grandkids and grandfatherliness.

After a moment they came up to the counter and said, ‘We go around the country walking into places and visualizing people naked.”  How ’bout that?

He also recalled a George Carlin sketch in which Carlin noted that he was not an atheist, nor an agnostic.  Instead, he said, I think I’m an acrostic.  We all agreed to put that down as our religious preference next time we were asked.

This was the fourth Woolly session that Mark has attended, perhaps the last one for a good while.  He seemed glad to be there and I was glad he had a chance to see this group of adult men who love each other.  Our congregation.