Way Out West part three

I ate at McDonalds. I forgot to mention that. The day of the wake, after my mother and I returned to the hotel to pick up my dad, we grapped food at the golden arches. I had a Quarter Pounder, a spicy chicken sandwich, a large fries and a coke. I had gotten up at 4 am that morning and had very little to eat (an egg sandwich at LaGuardia). I like McDonalds, I only eat there when traveling so it always feels like a special privilege. But that meal, with the addition of the tidbits at the church, explains why at the end of the wake service I was absolutely stuffed. We went back to the hotel, me in my Brother's rental car, met up with my second cousin Chase and cousin Dierdre and went out for dinner and drinks. We found a rather good spot on main street. It was a hundred year old restaurant that, despite its age, looked alot like a generic American bar and grill that nonetheless was stylish enough to fit in in Manhattan. Like many airport bars in the midwest, they like to serve beer in extremely large glasses, a pint and a half or more. I have no problem with this. They had ten kinds of cheeseburger and hamburger on the menu, yet when Chase asked for a bleu cheese burger they looked at him like he was a space alien. Not that Chase is really that far from actually being a space alien, but when he finally got them to serve him a burger with bleu cheese, they didn't realize they were supposed to melt it on there.

That's where we were in the country.

We were met there by my cousins (and siblings) Travis, Tyler, and Tanya. Those three are the children of my Aunt Joe. Dierdre is the daughter of my Aunt Sheri. Chase is actually my first cousin once removed as his mom is my great aunt (my grandmother's sister) Lucille. My brother Mike and sister Jodi were not in town yet, their plane wouldn't land until after ten o'clock. Here's a snapshot from the joint.

Excepting Chase, everyone in the photo is within five years of each other (Dierdre and Travis [pictured on the left] and I were born within a month of each other in 1971.

It was when we left the above establishment that the real fun began. We found another bar on main street (it's name really wasn't main street but I forget the exact apellation) called the Sportsman Inn...or something like that. I should not here that all the businesses were on main street, there were no businesses anywhere else. Considering that Wahpeton Breckenridge has only 8500 people, the main street was still more than a mile long. This particular bar had a pool table, darts, an outdoor volleyball court with with a "beach volleyball" league and a blackjack table. The bar tender looked somewhat like Harry Knowles, or like any overweight, bearded, computer nerd or comic geek. They sold five types of bottled Malibu, pickled eggs and pickled turkey gizzards. Some of the regulars looked like truck stop prostitutes (that may be a little harsh) and the rest looked like twenty year old college kids. But it was a Tuesday night so we had the pool table and darts all to ourselves. Most of us limited ourselves to Corona for the evening as the most palatable beverage in the joint.

We drank alot, and smoked alot as it was most definitely legal to smoke indoors. Chase is a dangerous man to drink with as he will gladly buy you beers to keep the evening going. And when someone else is buying, I stop counting. Most of the conversation was simply catching up with each other. There was only one cousin missing, Trevor, Sheri's son; the rest of us hadn't been all together in over twenty years, most likely since my deceased Uncle's wedding. Chase and others had cameras so there was a lot of picture snapping. We drank a toast to Gene. We drank a toast to each other. Chase and Dierdre, at the urging of the locals, began drinking mugshots of Jaegermeister and Red Bull. We closed the place at two am. More pictures below. A description of my extended family to follow in another posting.

~A

Chase and Tanya

Me, Travis, Chase and Tyler

My brother Tom and Dierdre
Me, Travis, Tanya, Chase, Tom, Dierdre and Tyler
All extremely drunk.

Travels west, part II.....

I have to think where I left off. I meant to complete my recounting well before now, while it was fresher in my mind. I haven't been able to do so because I lack a web connection at home; when I am out at a cafe or at work I don't have the time to relax and compose my thoughts. It may be the moment to actually for a web connection at home.

But that is a digression. I believe I left off my story at the viewing, the first afternoon in North Dakota. A powerepoinit show of phoitographs with captions was being projected on the wall of the sanctuary. Family photographs from Gene's youth to only a month ago. I was surprised at how many had me in them, my family. More than my cousins. There, clearly, was the Gene I remember, a man who felt to me like an adult, but who really was only 20 when I began to know him. There were photos there with me I could not remember, ones taken since I left college, ones with my family when I was not there. These same photos were posted on billboards set up in the foyer of the church (although there is a better, fancier name for the foyer for churches, narthex). My favorite was one I had seen before. Gene was eighteen or nineteen and he and a friend were about to set out for a journey to Yellowstone on motorcycles. Both were astride their bikes, both wore leather jackets. It was 1969 and Gene looked cooler than he ever would after. It is that vitality of the young that I remember best.

I sat there in the pew while other relatives filtered in, hugging each other and weeping. I said hello to my aunts and cousins and siblings in turn. I stepped out for a few cigarettes to relieve the intensity. After a reasonable time my Mother and I left to go back to the hotel. We roused my father, I changed clothes (it didn't feel right to wear jeans to the wake) and we met and greeted even more relatives. We returned to the church. There were more friends and community members there now. The eldest child, Ethan, and his friends were setting up their musical equipment for performances they were to give during the wake service.

We secured seats in a pew and deposited my father there. It is always curious to bring my father out into a crowd. He is frail so that you place him in a chair and will remain there until you want to move him somewhere else. He hangs his chin and his thoughts seem to go deeply elsewhere. Yet if you rouse him to introduce people to him he seems entirely alert and cognizant. Many of these people my father has known for as long as he has known my mother. Forty years or more. That is quite a history. In some cases though, as with my cousins, I wonder if he really understands who he is hugging or if he has developed a facility for faking it. It makes things much simpler. Eventually my Uncle Roy came in with some of his closer family. He is my deceased grandfatherb's elder brother, a life-long farmer, 92. He was the only person there who surpassed my father in age and it was cute to see them together, two wizened senescent gnomes.

There was food laid out in the church prior to the wake: bread and cold cuts, deserts, weak coffee. I ate a bunch. There were really good rice krispie bar variations there. They had a base of cornflakes stirred with peanut butter and corn syrup (or something like, perhaps Karo syrup), and they were topped with chocolate frosting. As the next day would prove, midwesterners are expert at exploring the full potential of the desert bar. Finally, after more socializing and catching up we filed into our seats for the wake. The casket was left open for this service ( it was not closed until right before the funeral the next day) with the pastor standing at a dais behind it. The place was full, though not as full as it would be. There were a standard series of biblical readings, some old fashioned hymns, the type I am quite fond of ( the reason I have my own copy of the Methodist Hymnal at home). There were also those musical performances (on piano, guitar and violin) by my cousin and his friends. Those songs were modern spirituals of the evangelical gospel church sort. But also fairly nice, not strident or too infused trite popular music phrasing. They flashed the lyrics on a wall above the altar and most of the regular congregants seemed to know the words. I have one of them stuck in my head even now (blessed be the name, of the lord, blessed be his name, dah dah dah di dah and so forth). His younger brother, Christopher, read a prepared statement concerning his personal relationship to Christ. Christopher had just been confirmed in the church two days before and this statement had been prepared as part of the confirmation training. It was earnest, to say the least. It was also completely unoriginal yeat heartfelt in a way completely typical of adolescents, when each thought seems entirely your own and new-found. Yet they also contained some sharp phrasing, undoubtedly delivered directly as he had been instructed, that showed how little analysis was contained in his words. He described how he believed he was created by God for a unique and special purpose on this earth, as were we all, and not eveloved by mere chance. I was not the only who chuckled at that.

Gene's daughtewr, 8, got up then and sang. Her clear, sharp, small voice pierced the crowd. I'm pretty sure all the mothers in the crowd were weeping. The song was catchy, and also has been flitting through my mind lately, not a pleasant sensation. Her mother sat behind her to instill confidence and her older brother sang accompaniment. The pastor then read his sermon.

My Uncle and his pastor had been close friends and associates, as my uncle was an elder of the church. The sermon showed this and that was it's best feature. The sermon offered no clear insight into God's wisdom, it offered little comfort. But it did express effectively what all in the sanctuary were experiencing and that is always a valuable thing. He kept referring to my Uncle as Dr. Gene. This may have been how many people knew him, but to my cousins and I it was usettling, as it was not how we knew him. There was more singing and praying after that, and the service ended. Rain and cool weather had moved in, and the next day would bring more rain.

~A

horrow show

So this elevator gets stuck in the Bronx halfway between two floors. Two guys climb out of the half open doors. The third guy to go has the bad timing. The elevator starts to move as he's halfway out and

HIS LEGS ARE COMPLETELY SEVERED!

The people remaining inside the elevator were sprayed with blood and weren't rescued for another hour. This means, of course, they spent an hour in a timy space, covered in blood, with two severed legs to keep them company. You can't beat that with a stick.

~A

The First Part of a Full Recounting of the Voyage West

Really amazing things, these airplanes. They whisk you from here to there with no strain and nary an ounce of effort. You spend a day or two in a different world and then the planes whisk you right back again. Disorienting it is. Thoreau looked askance on train travel, reckoning anything other than walking as too speedy and alienating; I am inclined to believe him. But planes are useful in a pinch, for attending a funeral for instance.

I arose at 4 am on Tuesday to catch a 7 am flight. I suppose I could have tardied longer, but I alwys worry about making it to, and through, the airport in a timely fashion. I am also always dismayed at passing through airports at such an early hour. The shops are still mostly closed and the morning papers have not yet been delivered. I feel that if the planes are flying then all the associated amenities and services should be available as well. But this is but one of life's minor disappointments.

My flights were, thankfully, uneventful. I landed in Chicago at roughly 9am (Central Time) and had enough space to change terminals, dash out for a few cigarettes, pass back through security and wait for my parents to arrive. Fargo is such a small airport (four gates), that nearly everyone was coming in or going out on flights with other family members. Meeting my parent meant I could help my mother handle my father and the attendant luggage. My father is quite frail. They had requested a wheelchair in the airport at Chicago but had decided not to bring theirs along. With his walker my father has little trouble, but he tires easily and it was helpful for me to attend him while my mother used the bathroom, got the rental car, and so forth.

After landing in Fargo and taking care of the above tasks we set out in a Camry sedan (very roomy, a surprisingly large trunk) to make the hour drive south to Wahpeton. I noticed again that all the trees I saw were indeed planted in straight lines. I had believed this to be true but considering how long it has been since I have visited I had questioned that idea. I was relieved to see it confirmed. But I still find the spectacle unsettling. I had misread the weather report, expecting it be sunny and in the 70s during my visit. When we arrived, while it was warm, there were thunder showers moving through. Beautiful weather on the prairie as you can monitor the approach and passing of the storms for hours in the long distance. They were harbingers of more unpleasant weather for the next day though.

The 55 mile trip went quickly. My mother knows Wahpeton well from her visits to my deceased uncle and my living granmother, who is ensconced in an assisted living home there (the Leach Home, such an unpleasant name!) We easily found the hotel and checked in, all by about 1:30. The normal rate was $65 a night but they knocked it down to $50 on account of the funeral. My aunt stayed at another place where she negotiated a $33 per night stay for that reason. (My plane flight was reduce from $1300 to $400 with no penalty for alterations for the same reason).

We ran into some other people there, my Mom's cousin Nancy, my great uncle and aunt Cecil and Annette (my grandfather's youngest brother and his wife), Cecil's son Sterling, a PhD who teaches Latin American studies at a godforsaken outpost in Alberta or Saskatchewon. Also my Mom's cousin Chase. Readers of this blog may have read of Chase before, he seems to live mostly to get other people smashed. More on that below.

Those relatives informed us that while the viewing would begin at four and the wake or service at 7, that the family would be allowed in at 2. We put my dad down for a nap and my mom and I went over. We got there nearly at the same time as my grandmother (Alice), her sister Lucille (Chase's mother), her brother Cleo (a bishop, although they don't call them that, in a Babtist church sect, serving as regional administrator for Ontario, New York and Pennsylvania)
and Cleo's son David (also a cousin of my Mother's, if you are still following.)

I viewed my uncle's corpse. The makeup job was poor, he looked very pale and ashen. Part of this was due to the fact that after he was stricken, he had fallen and lain for hours undiscovered, on his right side. Thus the blood had pooled and his face had discolored on that side, a thing difficult to cover. His hands lay on his bible, open to the page that was marked when they found him. Like his wife, my uncle periodically read the bible front to back. The passages were from Deuteronomy, but were of no great import.

I met my uncle's children, all five, mainly for the first time. I had met the eldest once before, but when he was only 2 or 3 or 4. He is 20 now. My aunt Sheri was there as well, my mother's sister. She was the youngest of the daughters and closest in age to my uncle (though still 6 or 8 years older) and she was taking his demise the most visibly. My mother's other sister, Joe, came in with her husband Dave. The worst part of this moment, indeed the worst part of the entire trip, was watching my grandmother sob over the corpse of her son. I don't know if any of my readers have had occasion to witness such a scene. She was inconsolable, moaning "Oh Gene, Oh Gene" over and over. It was equalled in terribleness only by the sight of Gene's daughter, aged 8, crying "Daddy, Daddy!" repeatedly, over his casket.

This is not a just world. Therefore, I do not seek justice nor strive to explain injustice when it occurs without apparent or direct cause. Nonetheless, my uncle's passing is a moment of particular injustice, a moment that is perhaps harder for they to explain who believe in a loving and active god than for me, who belive continually that these things happen often, and it is merely by statistics that they happen mostly to other people, or to strangers. It is not less sad for that.

To be continued...

A few comments on North dakota (or ShitChrist, The Musical)

I have returned today from the vaunted west, or perhaps more accurately, the western midwest. The farthest west you can be and still be dull and flat. I have only a few things to say this moment, I shall recapitulate the whole tour when I am more fully recovered:

• I was served cinnamon bread slathered with cheese spread.
• I woke up both Tuesday and Thursday at 4 am to catch early flights, this is both no fun and, somehow, strangely pleasant; kind of like exercising (so I'm told)
• The church, indeed the whole town, smelled strongly of cow manure or perhaps it was pig manure, a concentrated, chemical, acrid smell.
• A local dive bar had jars of pickled eggs, pickled turkey gizzards, four or five different types of Malibu, cigarettes for $4.50, an outdoor volleyball court and beach volleyball league. My compatriots there were encouraged by the locals to shoot glasses of Jagermeister and Red Bull.

In my next installment, I relate exactly what bearing the pall entails!

~A

Beautiful Saturdays

I suppose it is days like these that can make life worth living. I woke up at the expected time, ca. 9 am, showered like a responsible adult, made myself presentable to the world, put on some comfortable clothes, packed up my computer and clomped over to my local cafe for some iced coffee. On my way there I picked up a pack of smokes and drank some orange juice in another futile attempt to convince my body that, despit my other activities, I did care about it's well being. This may not be actually true, but its not too much to make a gesture.

At the cafe I read the paper, completed the Saturday crossword, as per usual. A delightful woman sat down beside me and engaged me in conversation. Sha had sat beside me in the cafe before but I hadn't found occassion to open a dialog. I had noticed however that she was studying Arabic. Today she informed me that she's actually studying medieval Arabic literature. For those of you who know me, that's enough right there to guarantee a full-blown crush. She's also attaractive.

So we traded jocular comments for a while, I engaged in some actual work, then she departed to make a phone call while leaving some things behind for her eventual return. Since I also had to leave to attend a meeting at Columbia, I wrote a polite note inviting her to coffee sometime and included my email. I slipped it into the text she was studying. Who knows? Perhaps something may come of it.

I neglected to mention that, prior to that woman's arrival, another attractive woman with whom I have a very minor prior acquaintance stopped by for some coffee on her way to a gym and said hi. Unfortunatley she did not stick around long enough for a real conversation as I wouldn't mind getting to know her a bit better. All I know now is what I discovered last week: that she works at the same august institution as I though our paths are unlikely to ever cross there. She is also a friend of a friend of a friend...or something like that.

I went to my meeting and both coming and going took unreasonably long due to a disruption of regular train service. I will not bother recounting details here. Suffice to say that when I was halfway home I got out at Union Square. A friend from Boston is in town for the five-borough bike ride tomorrow and we had planned to have dinner and drinks around 5. The problem is, while not daffy or dizzy in any way, plans with this friend are always up in the air until the absolute last minute (which is why I am writing in this blog right now instead of enjoying her company.)

So in Union Square I found I had time to go home. But meanwhile I stopped by the farmer's market and located a woman there. I met her at my local spelling bee and I find her absolutely entrancing (though very young.) I said hi to her as I had expected to see her at the recent spelling bee championship but was disappointed. She is planning to spend three months on various farms in Sweden where, through a program, she will receive free room and board in exchange for labor. I can see how that might be quite an adventure. She leaves May 25th. Nonetheless I got her email (and gave her mine in return.) This is a rare accomplishment for me. I might invite her out for a drink before she leaves; I really have no idea if she would agree, but it will be fun, at least, to correspond in some way to a pretty girl in Sweden.

Then I came here, to Pete's, figuring I could enjoy a drink and take advantage of the web connection to write sprawling blog entries. The place is more occupied than I had figured due to the running of the Kentucky Derby today. But its not too crowded that I feel guilty occupying a table. I am finding my mint julep quite tasty as well, though I think I prefer mojitos. I am put in mind of the Derby party I attended last year, at the end of my unhappy and near-daisastrous year in New Haven. The party was fine, but I prefer not to dwell on that time in my life.

I should mention to that this morning I had a very pleasant exchange with my ex-wife. Any communication is becoming rarer but I sent her a note because she had performed a small nicety this week for me and I wanted to express my gratitude. It all felt very emotionally healthy.

You should know however, that I am talking around the important news of the day. That last night my Mother calleed me near 10pm. The timing automatically sets off alarm bells. The news was that her brother had died suddenly and mysteriously. He was 52, attending a conference at the Mayo Clinic in St. Paul (he's a family practitioner and that's in Minnesota for all you northeasterners). After a week's stay, the maid staff noted that he had not checked out by four as is custom....and they found him dead, fully dressed, in his room. He leaves a wife and five children, ages 8 to 19.

Although I have not been close to him as an adult, he was a fixture of my childhood, inasmuch as, only then in his early twenties, he was always around the family farm when we visited. He still took a boyish pleasure in playing with us kids--wrestling, rides on motorcycles, etc. I still remember Brownie, the last heifer he raised for the state fair as part of 4h. It was the only time in my life I have helped milk a cow and I must have been younger than six. He attended my wedding and gave, as a gift, a check for twenty-five dollars. That gift is no insult, rather, it is entirely typical of the hard-scrabble farmer milieu my mother's family is from.

My mother and her sisters were all very close to him though he was twelve years younger than my mother and six years (at least) younger than the youngest sister. I don't know if this is typical, yet my ex-wife and her three sisters are similarly close to their similarly younger brother. My mom described him last night, when her voice was still quaking with despair and shock, as a good, good friend.

It is the stereotypical moment to regret the relative distance in the relationship. I will not dwell here on those things. Despite that though, I feel compelled to attend this funeral, and look forward to seeing all my extended family again (or at least those who will come). Many I will not have seen since my wedding. I have reflected before that this is preciely what weddings and funerals are for, any why it is important to attend.

Attendance, of course, necessitates a very expensive plane ticket, a tiresome journey and a too brief visit. The town is Wahpeton or, more precisely, Wahpeton/Breckenridge, since the town sits astride the Red River. It is that same river that splits North Dakota from Minnesota. The town is sixty mile south of Fargo (again, the precise name would be Fargo/Moorhead). and neither possesses the lush beauty of Minnesota or the spare, desolate attraction of the Dakotas. I have not been there in twenty years and I regret that fact. But I have had opportunity to visit and opted out so I can only really regret my pigheadedness.

To conclude, I can only presume that the interesting, positive, interactions I have had today must derive, in some way, from the emotional state that has descended on me upon hearing the bleak news of my uncle's death. Has it made me more free? More self-confident? Less self-conscious? Are the events wholly disconnected? I can only ponder this possible series of coincidences.

Meanwhile the Kentucky Derby is about to be run, my drink needs refreshing and I require a cigarette. My uncle's name is Dr. Eugene Evans. He will rest in peace.