Monday, February 13, 2006
A Daughter Says Good Voyage to Her Father
At about 1:30 a.m., the caregiver called and I ran next door with Peter. She simply said, "There's a change." On the way, I noticed a full moon and vibrant stars overhead, light at night like I've never seen it in Kenwood, where the evening sky is often inky black.
I got to his room, where he had laid for two days. Now he was peaceful—breathing irregularly, but more calm. I sat down beside him and tried to call him, but he did not open his eyes.
I started to tell the story again, the one that I've been telling him all week. "I'm building you a beautiful boat," I kept saying, "filled with every flower you've ever grown. When it's ready, you can leave." This time, I ended by saying, "The boat is ready now, it’s time to leave." Peter and I called out that we loved him, and Dad took another breath.
And there it ended, without a cry or a shout. He completely relaxed, yet he still seemed alive. I looked at Peter, who said, "It was only one breath. He's not exactly breathing." I looked down and saw the terrible exactitude for myself and faced its ultimate result, as he might say, "not the penultimate.” This is it, I remember thinking, footprints that disappear in mid-air, the devastation of love that disappears into the night we do not know.
He lived as he died, in Kenwood in a worn pensioneer's cottage, with green life all around him. He was nearly 97 this morning. He lived through two world wars, two major conflicts, and may other kinds of wars. He loved telling stories and writing. He was a remarkable gardener. As mother once said, “he could spit on the ground and it would grow.” My father raised sunflowers and admirers wherever he went. He never had an enemy that I knew of, and helped everyone he could.
But he was tired and lonesome for people like him who still darned socks and used a telegraph key for fun and taught themselves languages to pass the time. He was the kind of guy who liked to fix things. In the last few years, his repairs were misshapen and, at times, bigger and uglier than what was broken in the first place, combining nuts and bolts, nails and duct tape, with a dash of WD40 to keep it greased.
Life was changing faster than he could. Dad hated the sound of cell phones and answering machines, preferring a telephone bell to a beep. He was born in 1909, a poor Irish tenant farmer’s middle son. He outlived his entire family (of which there were many brothers and two sisters.) Like them, he was loving and had wonderful humor and required a fine ale at supper and dinner. Please join me tonight in a warm thought of Glen Smith, who used his ingenuity and innate curiosity to travel the world, living in China, The Philippines and Japan, finally ending up in Kenwood, CA—a small village of 400 or so souls, with homes of uncertain design, a village so much like the little town where he started out.
There will be a memorial service this spring. I will contact you to let you know more in a few weeks.
I got to his room, where he had laid for two days. Now he was peaceful—breathing irregularly, but more calm. I sat down beside him and tried to call him, but he did not open his eyes.
I started to tell the story again, the one that I've been telling him all week. "I'm building you a beautiful boat," I kept saying, "filled with every flower you've ever grown. When it's ready, you can leave." This time, I ended by saying, "The boat is ready now, it’s time to leave." Peter and I called out that we loved him, and Dad took another breath.
And there it ended, without a cry or a shout. He completely relaxed, yet he still seemed alive. I looked at Peter, who said, "It was only one breath. He's not exactly breathing." I looked down and saw the terrible exactitude for myself and faced its ultimate result, as he might say, "not the penultimate.” This is it, I remember thinking, footprints that disappear in mid-air, the devastation of love that disappears into the night we do not know.
He lived as he died, in Kenwood in a worn pensioneer's cottage, with green life all around him. He was nearly 97 this morning. He lived through two world wars, two major conflicts, and may other kinds of wars. He loved telling stories and writing. He was a remarkable gardener. As mother once said, “he could spit on the ground and it would grow.” My father raised sunflowers and admirers wherever he went. He never had an enemy that I knew of, and helped everyone he could.
But he was tired and lonesome for people like him who still darned socks and used a telegraph key for fun and taught themselves languages to pass the time. He was the kind of guy who liked to fix things. In the last few years, his repairs were misshapen and, at times, bigger and uglier than what was broken in the first place, combining nuts and bolts, nails and duct tape, with a dash of WD40 to keep it greased.
Life was changing faster than he could. Dad hated the sound of cell phones and answering machines, preferring a telephone bell to a beep. He was born in 1909, a poor Irish tenant farmer’s middle son. He outlived his entire family (of which there were many brothers and two sisters.) Like them, he was loving and had wonderful humor and required a fine ale at supper and dinner. Please join me tonight in a warm thought of Glen Smith, who used his ingenuity and innate curiosity to travel the world, living in China, The Philippines and Japan, finally ending up in Kenwood, CA—a small village of 400 or so souls, with homes of uncertain design, a village so much like the little town where he started out.
There will be a memorial service this spring. I will contact you to let you know more in a few weeks.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
On the Way to The Great Wall
Dad in the late 20's in China. He was preparing to cross The Great Wall by camel train and stopped to whet his whistle. When I asked how far he gotten, he laughed and said, "Two blocks!" He was one of the Old China Hands, men who came to China with the 15th Infantry. He would stay for many years, fascinated by China and it's remarkable beauty. Later, he would explore other Asian countries, including stints living in The Philippines and Japan. He learned the language everywhere he went--a poor, Irish farm boy with a belief in predestination and an impatient world, "waiting for you to set foot."
Friday, February 10, 2006
Journey with Dad at 96
My life and Peter's have revolved around my parents for a long time. Mother passed away three years ago--and now Dad has been placed at home in hospice care. It is a fascinating and intimate experience that Peter and I have dedicated ourselves to--learned from--and changed our lives to meet the various challenges.Dad has had numerous hospitalizations in the past year--and basically, they are mostly due to extreme old age and the implications of a strong spirit that has likely outlived his nearly 97 years.
Although he doesn't suffer mentally like Mother did, he has finally been diagnosed with a mild form of dementia. He, as our grandson Briston has said, "is still Gramps in the center". His loving and outgoing personality is still there. He loves being hugged and kissed, loves travel videos and even took a ride with Peter yesterday in our new car--a Toyota Prius he delightedly calls the "gas miser."For those of you who don't know, hospice means that doctors think a person has six months or less to live.
While Dad has pulled out of every nose dive thus far (and some have been terrible and breathtaking) his time is finally coming. For the first time during this last hospitalization, he said "I'm dying." At his age, most people would say, "of course." We think, "naturally." But his spirit--the stuff that makes him Glen--is so unfathomably young that it's hard to believe. We have been lucky to keep Dad here in our little village--where natural beauty and a slow pace make life much more enjoyable for all of us. He has had wonderful care from Fijian caregivers who have wonderful and gentle senses of humor. Now, there are hospice workers and volunteers and a terrific traveling doctor who drives out here to care for him. We know he has the best of all possible worlds.
Some of you have already been through these experiences with your parents; some are like us, experiencing our parents well into old age and beyond. It is an intense experience--fraught with uncertainty (are we doing the "right" thing--are we doing the right thing for wrong reasons--are we doing the wrong thing for right reasons, etc.) with a kind of richness that is difficult (even for a poet with enormous adverbial tendencies) to express properly. A dear friend gave me two wonderful books this holiday that have really enriched my spiritual understanding of this part of life: The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion and Gilead by Marilynne Johnson. Both are remarkable books with fine writing. Although very different from this experience, there is a core of insight that has been a balm to me. I recommend them both.
We realize that we have been preoccuppied and distracted during these times. The focus we have given to this experience has sometimes made other family members or friends feel shortchanged. And we have ignored things that we both need in life--creative space, travel, professional development, personal endeavor and material goods that we have foregone. Still, I'm so happy we've been able to do this. As humans, we travel through life looking for the real thing--and often return to the place we started to "find it." On this journey, I've learned so much about forgiveness, compassion and happiness in the midst of great sadness and confusion. I can only say from my own experience that life is richer having made the effort.
Dad is quiet and resting. Some days are better than others. He adores his great grandchildren and is proud of his grandchildren--and keeps track of everyone from Incline Village to Dallas to London. He has a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction in life. It's a good feeling, in fact, contagious. Some days, (like our old cat Biscottini) he just likes sitting in the sun. All these things are happiness at its simplest and most complex.
As someone said to me the other day, "Life isn't a grand tour of France with a happy ending, it's a dusty caravan that continues on through storms and high winds--hopefully with love, friendship and laughter."
Although he doesn't suffer mentally like Mother did, he has finally been diagnosed with a mild form of dementia. He, as our grandson Briston has said, "is still Gramps in the center". His loving and outgoing personality is still there. He loves being hugged and kissed, loves travel videos and even took a ride with Peter yesterday in our new car--a Toyota Prius he delightedly calls the "gas miser."For those of you who don't know, hospice means that doctors think a person has six months or less to live.
While Dad has pulled out of every nose dive thus far (and some have been terrible and breathtaking) his time is finally coming. For the first time during this last hospitalization, he said "I'm dying." At his age, most people would say, "of course." We think, "naturally." But his spirit--the stuff that makes him Glen--is so unfathomably young that it's hard to believe. We have been lucky to keep Dad here in our little village--where natural beauty and a slow pace make life much more enjoyable for all of us. He has had wonderful care from Fijian caregivers who have wonderful and gentle senses of humor. Now, there are hospice workers and volunteers and a terrific traveling doctor who drives out here to care for him. We know he has the best of all possible worlds.
Some of you have already been through these experiences with your parents; some are like us, experiencing our parents well into old age and beyond. It is an intense experience--fraught with uncertainty (are we doing the "right" thing--are we doing the right thing for wrong reasons--are we doing the wrong thing for right reasons, etc.) with a kind of richness that is difficult (even for a poet with enormous adverbial tendencies) to express properly. A dear friend gave me two wonderful books this holiday that have really enriched my spiritual understanding of this part of life: The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion and Gilead by Marilynne Johnson. Both are remarkable books with fine writing. Although very different from this experience, there is a core of insight that has been a balm to me. I recommend them both.
We realize that we have been preoccuppied and distracted during these times. The focus we have given to this experience has sometimes made other family members or friends feel shortchanged. And we have ignored things that we both need in life--creative space, travel, professional development, personal endeavor and material goods that we have foregone. Still, I'm so happy we've been able to do this. As humans, we travel through life looking for the real thing--and often return to the place we started to "find it." On this journey, I've learned so much about forgiveness, compassion and happiness in the midst of great sadness and confusion. I can only say from my own experience that life is richer having made the effort.
Dad is quiet and resting. Some days are better than others. He adores his great grandchildren and is proud of his grandchildren--and keeps track of everyone from Incline Village to Dallas to London. He has a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction in life. It's a good feeling, in fact, contagious. Some days, (like our old cat Biscottini) he just likes sitting in the sun. All these things are happiness at its simplest and most complex.
As someone said to me the other day, "Life isn't a grand tour of France with a happy ending, it's a dusty caravan that continues on through storms and high winds--hopefully with love, friendship and laughter."
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