Kiss Me, I'm Irish

I'm not saying I'm into geneology or anything, but where my ancestors came from has always been fairly important to me.

My dad's father was Swedish -- straight up -- from an immigrant father and first-generation Swedish-American mother. Grandpa spoke Swedish until grade school. Even though he grew up to marry a Norwegian-American, my grandmother, our family holidays were a swirl of Dala Horses, fruit soup and Swedish smorgasbords. I like to refer to my brother and myself as Vikings and look forward to seeing "the home country" for myself someday.

Just as sure as I have been about my Scandinavian side, I always believed my mother's side of the family to be Scottish. I was a little less fervent about it, but when I visited Aberdeen the summer after my senior year of college, I made sure to chat up the Scots we met in pubs with the fact that my ancestors were MacCleods from the Isle of Skye. Skye had been "settled" (more like invaded) by Vikings centuries ago, which I assume is what makes my brother and me look like we wandered off a ski slope in search of a sauna.

I've also always had this little thing about the Irish. Specifically, Irish-American culture and its overbearing insistence on boisterous St. Patrick's Day celebrations and ear-splitting live Irish music that pops up out of nowhere on what was supposed to be a quiet night out with friends.

"You don't get a whole month!" I insisted to my (half Irish) friend J as we sat in a neighborhood pub underneath a promotional poster laying out the events for the "Month of St. Patrick." I also dragged her up to Andersonville the first chance I got for some Swedish pancakes and a little spin around Swedetown. When March 17th rolls around each year and people ask me why I'm not wearing green, I cooly respond "I'm not Irish."

Except, it turns out that I am.

Greetings from Griefland

I read this piece last night at the very first Story Lab Chicago.  It was such a great night and I had a fantastic experience doing a live show for the first time.  It's a little tough posting this here, because I wrote it to be read out loud and I think a lot is lost without hearing it live, but for my friends and family who couldn't make it to the Black Rock, here's what I did:

“Grandpa died.” 

I have wandered into my brother’s dining room late Thanksgiving morning, blinking against the sunlight into the middle of an earnest conversation between my little nieces:

“Grandpa B died!” says Claire, age three and a half .  She takes a scoop of oatmeal and lets this fact settle over her younger cousin Evie.  When you’re three and a half, there are few opportunities to be the authority on things…Claire is taking this opportunity and rolling with it full speed.

These Sudden Ends in Time Must Give Us Pause

Somewhere between three and five hours after writing my last post, my dad died suddenly.

In the bizarre grief world that followed, my words haunted me. The fact that as I was blithely typing away about the little time we have on this Earth and reassuring a former classmate that all was well, my father was living his last hours, alone and far from home.

Even though he had no reason to know his time was short, my dad was a morbid bastard. My brothers, sister and I planned his funeral services from handwritten instructions on paper from his familiar and favored yellow legal pads. A teacher of literature, he had chosen poems for my brother and I to read. For me, it was Year's End by Richard Wilbur, which I post here in memory of him and in honor of all of the students he touched.

Year’s End by Richard Wilbur : The Poetry Foundation [poem] : Find Poems and Poets. Discover Poetry.

Knots to Untangle

OK, it's not the absolute worst time for my computer to go tits up, but it's far from ideal. 

I'm back at Winston's on the shared machine, the only one of the two that doesn't have the same virus as my laptop.  Looks like I'll be dropping some unexpected cash on a new computer sooner than I'd hoped. 

My dad and stepmom recently divorced after more than two decades of marriage.  One of the hardest parts has been counseling my dad through the random shit that happens in life -- things that my stepmother used to just deal with for the both of them.  He gets so upset when an unexpected credit card fee pops up or when the Internet service he ordered and paid for turns out to be spotty at the river cottage he moved into this spring.  He takes it personally, and spins into rages at these little indignities.  "Dad, this is life, these kind of things happen all the time and they happen to everybody," my brother and I found ourselves saying over and over.

And tonight, I'm having to say it to myself.  Over and over.

grrrr. 

Say What You Mean/Mean What You Say

At 7:45 this morning, my niece A. called.  She is three and a half, and on Eastern Time.

Sleepily, I scanned my brain for toddler conversation topics.

"Are you on your way to school?"  I asked

"No." she answered.  "I'm on my way to preschool."

One of my favorite things about A. is she demands precision with the English language.  She refuses to call Spongebob Squarepants by his trademarked name.  Why?  As anyone with eyes can see, his pants aren't actually square.  To A. he will forever and accurately be referred to as Spongebob Rectanglepants. 

Earlier this summer I was on the phone with my sister-in-law, who was describing for me how A.'s little sister crashed A.'s dance lessons and even lined up for an animal cracker treat with the rest of the class when it was over.  "She just marched herself right over and put out her hand."

"No, mommy!"  I heard A. insist in the background.  "She didn't march.  She walked."

Get it straight, people.