Hi there! I hope everyone had fun yesterday on Nola's birthday. And Happy Autumnal Equinox!
Peggy and I are in Morro Bay for a few days. We drove straight through on Wednesday, which was 13.75 hours of fun. Stopped briefly in Scipio, Cedar City, Primm, and Boron, and arrived in the Motel 6 as the sun was setting. After we checked in, we drove to the Whale's Tail, but it is closed, permanently, and the property is for sale. Tragic. So we went to the Hungry Fisherman for fish and chips. It was delicious and relaxing.
We chatted nonstop on the long drive. We experienced a minor problem with the AC in the Fit, which was bothersome. It was 95+ across the desert, and the AC fan seemed inadequate (it seems fine now). For several hours, we were damp, and I complained frequently. We rolled the windows down as we approached the coast, and it was glorious.
After we left Barstow, I handed Peggy a map and asked how far we were from Bakersfield, and she (master cartographer) examined the map closely and said, "About two inches." :) And giggled.
After dinner, we drove past Terry's house, and her car was out front, but the house was completely dark. The exterior looks adorable, as it always has.
Yesterday, we slept in, and then drove down to the Embarcadero. We checked out several stores, and then had lunch at Dockside Too, which is a favorite. There were a LOT of animals to watch, including some HUGE seals that swam by about 20 feet from us. They looked to be about 7 feet long from nose to tail, maybe 300 or 400 pounds. There were 2 or 3 of them, and they seemed to be playing together. There were also giant pelicans swooping across the water's surface. The live music was provided by Liam, who wasn't as good as the musician in February, when we were here last. It was mostly light jazz, but toward the end he played (and sang) the Beatles' "I Will," which I adore. "Love you forever and forever, love you with all my heart. Love you whenever we're together, love you when we're apart." :) That was fitting.
We shared Tank's favorite (chicken taquitos), and I had two tacos (shrimp and salmon), and Peggy had one taco (shrimp). So tasty! So relaxing! Dogs and middle-aged men everywhere.
We did more Embarcadero shopping, and Peggy bought lovely scarves and jewelry. We bought some vegan jerky for Kaycee. :)
We drove to Spencer's, but the Farmers' Market was just setting up, so we drove to Los Osos and Carlocks. Peggy had two cookies, and I had a haystack. Wow. I bet Tank loved date-filled haystacks. We sat down with diet Cokes and our treats, and took our time. Carlocks was uncrowded at that hour. We imagined all the times Tank had been there. We felt grateful that we had such a long list of places that Tank loved, that we could visit.
We drove back across the marshy Los Osos (so beautiful) and went to Spensers for tomatilla salsa, wine, and beef jerky. We hit the Farmers' Market (in the parking lot), which has grown since I was there last (nearly a year ago). We bought strawberries, blackberries, and coconut bread (my god...so good). Oh, and fresh-squeezed OJ. And apple sauce. We received free samples of cherry tomatoes and apple-pecan bread. Everyone was friendly. The selection of produce was overwhelming...like nothing I have ever seen before. It was so easy to imagine Tank shopping here, and taking it all home for dinner. It seemed like there were dozens of types of lettuce, and dozens of types of squash.
Peggy and I seem to move very efficiently from activity to activity, so it was still early afternoon, and I agreed to go shopping in San Luis Obispo for one hour (the bidding started at 1.5 hours). It's such a gorgeous place to shop, and she bought a merlot felt hat with a floppy brim (like Ali McGraw in Love Story), some A&F cologne, gifts for the grandkids, outrageous note cards, and jewelry fixings. I shopped with her sometimes, and sat on a park bench sometimes, and enjoyed every minute. It's a clean, friendly town with lots of cute college girls who travel in packs, and cute middle-aged men who travel alone. I observed both.
We stopped briefly at the motel, and then went to Cayucos and the Sea Shanty. We shared a burger and onion rings, and each had a side salad. So good!
Back at the motel, Peggy fell asleep instantly, while I watched Big Bang and then tossed and turned until about 3 a.m. Sleeping is HARD.
Today, we're heading for Carlocks again ('cause Tank would want us to), and then to Ragged Point (near Big Sur) for $20 sandwiches. We're also going to purchase jewelry from ex-monk Brother John. You know...to help us remember the trip. After that, we'll touch base with Terry, and invite her to dinner.
Well, Peggy is actually all ready to start the day, and here I sit with wet hair, so I'll log off. You take care! Love, Polly.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
8 July 2011
The night before last, I had a dream about Tank. He was very ill, and living in a lovely, rambling, white clapboard hotel surrounded by a porch, situated on a grassy hillside. It appeared to be a 1920s sanitarium where one might recover from tuberculosis. Tank wanted to get out of there, so several family members picked him up in an over-sized pickup truck that belonged to Kelly. I was there, of course, along with my siblings, and Sadie, and Kaycee with 1-year-old Charlie on her lap. Tank made eight, and we all fit comfortably in the extended cab of the white truck.
Sally was driving, because she told Kelly that being a passenger hurt her back, but driving did not. Kelly was sitting in the backseat, his arms folded across his cheat, clearly unhappy with the arrangement.
Just as we were about to leave (we were headed for Purple Turtle to get tacos), I suggested that it would be handy to have a couple pairs of paper skivvies with us. So Sadie (all knees and elbows...looking about 13 years old) hopped out of the truck and ran back to the sanitarium, quickly returning with two diapers, identical to the ones I recently used on young KJ. No one saw a problem with that, so Sadie climbed back into the truck, and we headed out, Sally carefully maneuvering the large vehicle down the grassy hillside.
There was a bit of a party atmosphere in the truck. We all seemed to know that this would be Tank's last ride...that he wouldn't survive long. (He was walking, though, and wearing a polo shirt and slacks; the shirt wasn't tucked in, and he was barefoot.) Charlie was wearing an orange T-shirt, and happily perched on Kaycee's lap, gnawing on a chunk of bread. We kept grinning at each other, knowing that this final outing was bringing Tank a lot of pleasure, and knowing that he--not others--was choosing where he would die.
The dream ended there, and blissfully. I felt confident that we'd make it to Purple Turtle...that the end would come after lunch.
I miss a lot of things about Tank. Just the other day, Dan mentioned how much he missed Tank's loud, enthusiastic, predictive phone messages: "(Laughter.) Dan! Polly! (More laughter.) Just called to say hello! You're probably out having lunch! Or walking the dogs! Having a wonderful time, I'm sure! I'll call again later! (More laughter.)" And we usually were out having lunch or walking the dogs (but sometimes we were snaking a toilet, or I was sobbing quietly, baffled by a particularly complex Excel spreadsheet). I also miss his frequent and sincere (but not needy) invitations to visit, the warm and solicitous way he asked about "our Clayton," and the way I could please him by discussing the latest Parker novel...by recalling a perceptive line or a meaningful exchange between two of our favorite characters.
I miss the validation I received from Tank. He validated generously and spontaneously, and--since I'm cursed with an external locus of identity (and no, the irony isn't lost on me)--I appreciated every validation, every reassurance, every recognition of every accomplishment, no matter how insignificant. I signed up for swimming lessons? Wonderful! I got an A-minus on my Biology final? Wonderful! I did seven push-ups, took E to the aquarium, stopped at a Kool-Aid stand in a bad neighborhood, made Enchilada Pie for dinner? Wonderful! With siblings and other peers, there's usually some sense of competition, no matter how minor or subtle or vehemently denied. Not so with parents. They're always rooting for you.
My favorite thing about blogging is that paragraph-to-paragraph transitions are optional.
Decades ago, Dan's sister-in-law delivered full-term stillborn twin boys. Family and friends were gripped by the tragedy, but eventually other topics of conversation were broached. Maybe out of emotional discomfort, maybe out of a misplaced sense of kindness, people stopped talking to her about what had happened...about the boys. She wasn't ready to move on, though, and she told me that she wanted to hang a sign around her neck: "Please ask me about my dead sons." To this day, I appreciate her gritty honesty. Sometimes, I think about that, and Tank. "Talk to me about Tank!" I want to insist. "Tell me that you miss him. Tell me how much he meant to you. Tell me that you can remember...when he was alive."
Tank never said that he was a Leonard Cohen fan. I'm certain, though, that any lack of fanaticism is related to a lack of exposure. If he'd heard the live version of "The Gypsy's Wife," with its eerie violin solo, with its heartbroken refrain ("where...where is my gypsy wife tonight?"), he would have declared himself a fan. Perhaps I've mentioned it before, but--at the end of Tank's life--I often thought of my favorite lines from that song, and hummed them occasionally when I was alone with him.
It's too early for the rainbow,
too early for the dove.
These are your final days,
this is the darkness, this is the flood.
I think he would have forgiven the biblical origins. I sometimes wonder how aware he was at the end. Scary as hell, I'm sure, but fascinating, too, to have a sense of what's going on. Tank had a curious nature. I can imagine his last thought being, "This is new...this is interesting..."
Please forgive me for complaining in my last blog entry, regarding the Laugh Lots sign. Right behind me, on my study wall, hangs a three-feet by three-feet sign that reads, "Pay Attention" in Tank's handwriting. It actually says:
PAY
ATTENTIO
N
LL
The L's only look like L's if one has seen Tank's L's. Dan read the sign as "Pay Attentio alpha-alpha-to-the-Nth." :) Which is probably only funny to me.
Ya'll take care.
Sally was driving, because she told Kelly that being a passenger hurt her back, but driving did not. Kelly was sitting in the backseat, his arms folded across his cheat, clearly unhappy with the arrangement.
Just as we were about to leave (we were headed for Purple Turtle to get tacos), I suggested that it would be handy to have a couple pairs of paper skivvies with us. So Sadie (all knees and elbows...looking about 13 years old) hopped out of the truck and ran back to the sanitarium, quickly returning with two diapers, identical to the ones I recently used on young KJ. No one saw a problem with that, so Sadie climbed back into the truck, and we headed out, Sally carefully maneuvering the large vehicle down the grassy hillside.
There was a bit of a party atmosphere in the truck. We all seemed to know that this would be Tank's last ride...that he wouldn't survive long. (He was walking, though, and wearing a polo shirt and slacks; the shirt wasn't tucked in, and he was barefoot.) Charlie was wearing an orange T-shirt, and happily perched on Kaycee's lap, gnawing on a chunk of bread. We kept grinning at each other, knowing that this final outing was bringing Tank a lot of pleasure, and knowing that he--not others--was choosing where he would die.
The dream ended there, and blissfully. I felt confident that we'd make it to Purple Turtle...that the end would come after lunch.
I miss a lot of things about Tank. Just the other day, Dan mentioned how much he missed Tank's loud, enthusiastic, predictive phone messages: "(Laughter.) Dan! Polly! (More laughter.) Just called to say hello! You're probably out having lunch! Or walking the dogs! Having a wonderful time, I'm sure! I'll call again later! (More laughter.)" And we usually were out having lunch or walking the dogs (but sometimes we were snaking a toilet, or I was sobbing quietly, baffled by a particularly complex Excel spreadsheet). I also miss his frequent and sincere (but not needy) invitations to visit, the warm and solicitous way he asked about "our Clayton," and the way I could please him by discussing the latest Parker novel...by recalling a perceptive line or a meaningful exchange between two of our favorite characters.
I miss the validation I received from Tank. He validated generously and spontaneously, and--since I'm cursed with an external locus of identity (and no, the irony isn't lost on me)--I appreciated every validation, every reassurance, every recognition of every accomplishment, no matter how insignificant. I signed up for swimming lessons? Wonderful! I got an A-minus on my Biology final? Wonderful! I did seven push-ups, took E to the aquarium, stopped at a Kool-Aid stand in a bad neighborhood, made Enchilada Pie for dinner? Wonderful! With siblings and other peers, there's usually some sense of competition, no matter how minor or subtle or vehemently denied. Not so with parents. They're always rooting for you.
My favorite thing about blogging is that paragraph-to-paragraph transitions are optional.
Decades ago, Dan's sister-in-law delivered full-term stillborn twin boys. Family and friends were gripped by the tragedy, but eventually other topics of conversation were broached. Maybe out of emotional discomfort, maybe out of a misplaced sense of kindness, people stopped talking to her about what had happened...about the boys. She wasn't ready to move on, though, and she told me that she wanted to hang a sign around her neck: "Please ask me about my dead sons." To this day, I appreciate her gritty honesty. Sometimes, I think about that, and Tank. "Talk to me about Tank!" I want to insist. "Tell me that you miss him. Tell me how much he meant to you. Tell me that you can remember...when he was alive."
Tank never said that he was a Leonard Cohen fan. I'm certain, though, that any lack of fanaticism is related to a lack of exposure. If he'd heard the live version of "The Gypsy's Wife," with its eerie violin solo, with its heartbroken refrain ("where...where is my gypsy wife tonight?"), he would have declared himself a fan. Perhaps I've mentioned it before, but--at the end of Tank's life--I often thought of my favorite lines from that song, and hummed them occasionally when I was alone with him.
It's too early for the rainbow,
too early for the dove.
These are your final days,
this is the darkness, this is the flood.
I think he would have forgiven the biblical origins. I sometimes wonder how aware he was at the end. Scary as hell, I'm sure, but fascinating, too, to have a sense of what's going on. Tank had a curious nature. I can imagine his last thought being, "This is new...this is interesting..."
Please forgive me for complaining in my last blog entry, regarding the Laugh Lots sign. Right behind me, on my study wall, hangs a three-feet by three-feet sign that reads, "Pay Attention" in Tank's handwriting. It actually says:
PAY
ATTENTIO
N
LL
The L's only look like L's if one has seen Tank's L's. Dan read the sign as "Pay Attentio alpha-alpha-to-the-Nth." :) Which is probably only funny to me.
Ya'll take care.
Monday, June 27, 2011
27 June 2011
It's been five months.
Here's a list of Tank's stuff. Of course, he shared furniture and appliances and dishes and pans, so they were left behind. And I'm convinced that if--a year ago--he'd moved to another house in Morro Bay, he would have ditched half of this stuff. If he'd moved farther--to Port Townsend, to Sandy--he would have ditched 90 percent of it.
86 books
Detective fiction: 17
Other fiction: 5 (including a gorgeous hardcover Joseph Conrad)
Word origins, quotes, writing, speaking: 12
Anti-religion: 6
LA waterfront: 11
Movies and showbiz: 7
Philosophy, history, science: 23
Controlling diabetes: 4
Jokes: 1 ("Beyond the Far Side")
There were two duplicates: "The Best of Sydney J. Harris" and Eric Hoffer's "Working and Thinking on the Waterfront."
62 items of clothing
T-shirts: 4
Woven-cotton shirts: 6 short sleeved, 1 long sleeved
Polo shirts: 4
Cotton-knit lounge pants: 5
Sweat pants: 4
Jeans: 1
Khaki shorts: 2
Khaki slacks: 4
Socks: 4 pair
Shoes: 4 pair (3 white tennis shoes, 1 gray tennis shoes)
Skivvies: 7 pair
Gloves: 2 pair
Belts: 2
Hats: 4 (2 baseball caps, 1 canvas bucket hat, 1 narrow-brimmed straw hat)
Bathing suits: 2
Scarf: 1 (bright red wool, fringed...probably packed inadvertently)
Fleece jacket: 1
Windbreakers: 3
Sweater: 1
Wall hangings
Poster (Lakers, a couple decades ago)
Poster (aerial view, Port of Los Angeles)
Posters (3, Tank's writing)
Wooden sign ("Live well, laugh often, love much")
Pencil drawing (small, matted, 1910)
Pencil drawing (framed, San Pedro)
Modern art (by Tank, on glass)
Modern art (by Tank, bark glued on styrofoam)
Sign ("Pay Attention, LL" by Tank, 3 feet by 3 feet)
Sign (Tow Away Zone on one side, an invitation to a party at Tank's on the other side)
Sign (Spencer's Market "proudly sponsors" Tank's radio show)
Painting (large, framed, yellow lawn chair and a bucket of red flowers)
Painting (framed, sailboat)
Blank canvas (1 foot by 2 feet)
Over-sized birthday card (from the Alexanders, 1 foot by 2 feet)
Media
Lots of cassettes, VCR tapes (movies, Tank), CDs (music, Tank on the radio), DVDs (movies, Tank)
Miscellaneous items
"Laugh Lots!" written on a piece of fencepost with black Sharpie
Paper (large stack, assorted sizes and weights)
Life magazines (about a dozen)
Duffel bags (4: 3 canvas, 1 leather)
Blankets (2, both small)
Towel (large, brown, embroidered with the word TANK and several small military tanks)
Frisbee (yellow)
Crockpot (olive green, without a lid)
Eyeglasses (2, readers, brown plastic)
Baseball glove (well worn)
Softball
Football
Rope (coiled, clothesline type)
Checkers game (plastic)
Chess game (plastic)
Picnic basket (wicker, small)
Utensil crock (blue)
Puzzle (in original package, "What Movie is That?")
Boom box (with a Gipsy Kings CD)
Large box of empty coffee cans with lids
Attache case (black with red-and-black-checked interior)
Paper cup filled with nuts and bolts
Tape (packaging, Priority Mail)
Tape (masking)
Tape (2, Scotch)
Tools (4, assorted)
Bird feathers (3, assorted)
Flashlight (in working order)
Ruler (NFL theme, plastic, 12 inch)
Wine corks in a gallon Ziplock bag
Metal bracelet ("Live well, laugh often, love much" on one side, "Live the life you have imagined" on the other side)
Tiles (about 4 inches by 4 inches; "Dance like there's nobody watching" on one, "Sing like there's nobody listening" on the other)
Bottle opener
Eggs (4, stone)
Eggs (2, plastic)
Dominoes game (very old, in box)
Box of white chalk
Box of crayons (only 6 left)
Shoelaces (45 inches, new in package)
Antenna ball ("76")
Electric razor
Bottle of Tums
Hospital bootie (1)
Ink-filled stamp with home address
Pen
Drawing pad (18 inches by 24 inches, spiral bound)
There were several items that had been gifts from one of Tank's kids, so those items were returned to the gift-giver. (One was a wall hanging that defined the word Dad, making reference to the guy who pushes you extra high on a swing, allowing you to see things that you might not have seen otherwise. Another was a pencil sketch--beautifully done by Anna C., who worked from a photo--of a young Tank working under the hood of a sports car.) There was also an American flag, which was sent directly to Peggy from the navy, and she kept it as her first-choice item. There was also a large sepia photo (with a rigid backing) of early San Pedro, which Tank told Peggy she could have.
To my mind, the most desirable possession of Tank's was the chunk of fencepost with "Laugh Lots!" written on it. I didn't get it, and it was no one's fault but my own. I was distracted...maybe by grief, maybe by the over-sized cookies Sally brought to the divvying-up event. Kelly got it, and it's displayed prominently in his house. "I love it," Susan gushed, when Sally and I visited recently. I thought about grabbing it, and running to the Fit, and driving until I crossed into Canada. But I took a deep breath and thought about the cool things I did score: a long-sleeved plaid cotton shirt that I can wear like a cocktail dress, a container of Tums that I keep in the glove box, the suitable-for-framing piece of tree bark, the three feathers to which Dan attached pens and keeps on his desk, and one of the Sydney Harris books, in which Tank wrote "Please return to: TANK." He included his address and offered a polite "thank you." The book smells of his house...like seawater, like sunshine.
Peggy made me a beautiful bracelet for my birthday. It has a don't-blame-don't-complain theme. When I wear it, I spend slightly less time blaming and complaining.
I was chatting with a friend recently, and I said--of a mutual friend--"He's never been allowed to be himself." Once we're adults, though, "being oneself" doesn't require the permission or encouragement of others (although many of us get confused and think it does). Tank--especially the last dozen years or so--was very determined to be himself, and he derived great pleasure from doing so. He didn't always manage it, of course, and a case could probably be made that "being himself" wasn't always in his best long-term interest. Few achieve and maintain the level of clarity that allows one to express the self of today without harming (to some degree) the self of tomorrow.
But even so... I always got the impression that Tank was trying to get the most from a moment by making it uniquely his own...by turning off the voice that told him what others expected, what tradition dictated, what was standard operational procedure, what was prudent. Tank understood that much of what we take to be mandatory is actually optional.
I know that my effusive praise of Tank sets him up for criticism. He would be the first to assert that his mistakes would fill the back of an F-150 to overflowing. And that--if lucky--one acquires wisdom with age, but one still makes mistakes at an alarming rate.
In addition to Tank's bulkier stuff, there was a huge box of story ideas, notes-to-self, and correspondence, which I divided among the four of us, shamelessly keeping the best for myself (sometimes, I made copies). Eventually, I'll blog about each and every scrap of paper. Like me, Tank was comfortable throwing away correspondence once it was read, so I was surprised when I found a Thoreau quote that I sent him, cut from a magazine and inserted in a letter. It reads: "There is no remedy for love but to love more."
I had a credit at Amazon.com, so I recently ordered five Simon and Garfunkel CDs, because I only had albums. I've been listening to them in the car, and today--it was inevitable--I suddenly heard the unmistakable first notes of "The Boxer," one of Tank's favorite songs. Besides its musical perfection, it's clear to me why Tank loved this song. After 9/11, when normal TV programming resumed, Paul Simon was the musical guest on "Saturday Night Live," and he sang "The Boxer." It's an ode to resilience. "In the clearing stands a boxer..." The song takes a while to end, with just enough lie-la-lie's to suit me. But this time, as I listened to the song end, I imagined Tank turning and walking away from me, with that football-injury gait, his arm up to wave a final time. As he waves, his face is already turned away from me, in a posture that would seem dismissive if it weren't so familiar and affectionate. Try thinking about that while you listen to "The Boxer." "I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains."
Here's a list of Tank's stuff. Of course, he shared furniture and appliances and dishes and pans, so they were left behind. And I'm convinced that if--a year ago--he'd moved to another house in Morro Bay, he would have ditched half of this stuff. If he'd moved farther--to Port Townsend, to Sandy--he would have ditched 90 percent of it.
86 books
Detective fiction: 17
Other fiction: 5 (including a gorgeous hardcover Joseph Conrad)
Word origins, quotes, writing, speaking: 12
Anti-religion: 6
LA waterfront: 11
Movies and showbiz: 7
Philosophy, history, science: 23
Controlling diabetes: 4
Jokes: 1 ("Beyond the Far Side")
There were two duplicates: "The Best of Sydney J. Harris" and Eric Hoffer's "Working and Thinking on the Waterfront."
62 items of clothing
T-shirts: 4
Woven-cotton shirts: 6 short sleeved, 1 long sleeved
Polo shirts: 4
Cotton-knit lounge pants: 5
Sweat pants: 4
Jeans: 1
Khaki shorts: 2
Khaki slacks: 4
Socks: 4 pair
Shoes: 4 pair (3 white tennis shoes, 1 gray tennis shoes)
Skivvies: 7 pair
Gloves: 2 pair
Belts: 2
Hats: 4 (2 baseball caps, 1 canvas bucket hat, 1 narrow-brimmed straw hat)
Bathing suits: 2
Scarf: 1 (bright red wool, fringed...probably packed inadvertently)
Fleece jacket: 1
Windbreakers: 3
Sweater: 1
Wall hangings
Poster (Lakers, a couple decades ago)
Poster (aerial view, Port of Los Angeles)
Posters (3, Tank's writing)
Wooden sign ("Live well, laugh often, love much")
Pencil drawing (small, matted, 1910)
Pencil drawing (framed, San Pedro)
Modern art (by Tank, on glass)
Modern art (by Tank, bark glued on styrofoam)
Sign ("Pay Attention, LL" by Tank, 3 feet by 3 feet)
Sign (Tow Away Zone on one side, an invitation to a party at Tank's on the other side)
Sign (Spencer's Market "proudly sponsors" Tank's radio show)
Painting (large, framed, yellow lawn chair and a bucket of red flowers)
Painting (framed, sailboat)
Blank canvas (1 foot by 2 feet)
Over-sized birthday card (from the Alexanders, 1 foot by 2 feet)
Media
Lots of cassettes, VCR tapes (movies, Tank), CDs (music, Tank on the radio), DVDs (movies, Tank)
Miscellaneous items
"Laugh Lots!" written on a piece of fencepost with black Sharpie
Paper (large stack, assorted sizes and weights)
Life magazines (about a dozen)
Duffel bags (4: 3 canvas, 1 leather)
Blankets (2, both small)
Towel (large, brown, embroidered with the word TANK and several small military tanks)
Frisbee (yellow)
Crockpot (olive green, without a lid)
Eyeglasses (2, readers, brown plastic)
Baseball glove (well worn)
Softball
Football
Rope (coiled, clothesline type)
Checkers game (plastic)
Chess game (plastic)
Picnic basket (wicker, small)
Utensil crock (blue)
Puzzle (in original package, "What Movie is That?")
Boom box (with a Gipsy Kings CD)
Large box of empty coffee cans with lids
Attache case (black with red-and-black-checked interior)
Paper cup filled with nuts and bolts
Tape (packaging, Priority Mail)
Tape (masking)
Tape (2, Scotch)
Tools (4, assorted)
Bird feathers (3, assorted)
Flashlight (in working order)
Ruler (NFL theme, plastic, 12 inch)
Wine corks in a gallon Ziplock bag
Metal bracelet ("Live well, laugh often, love much" on one side, "Live the life you have imagined" on the other side)
Tiles (about 4 inches by 4 inches; "Dance like there's nobody watching" on one, "Sing like there's nobody listening" on the other)
Bottle opener
Eggs (4, stone)
Eggs (2, plastic)
Dominoes game (very old, in box)
Box of white chalk
Box of crayons (only 6 left)
Shoelaces (45 inches, new in package)
Antenna ball ("76")
Electric razor
Bottle of Tums
Hospital bootie (1)
Ink-filled stamp with home address
Pen
Drawing pad (18 inches by 24 inches, spiral bound)
There were several items that had been gifts from one of Tank's kids, so those items were returned to the gift-giver. (One was a wall hanging that defined the word Dad, making reference to the guy who pushes you extra high on a swing, allowing you to see things that you might not have seen otherwise. Another was a pencil sketch--beautifully done by Anna C., who worked from a photo--of a young Tank working under the hood of a sports car.) There was also an American flag, which was sent directly to Peggy from the navy, and she kept it as her first-choice item. There was also a large sepia photo (with a rigid backing) of early San Pedro, which Tank told Peggy she could have.
To my mind, the most desirable possession of Tank's was the chunk of fencepost with "Laugh Lots!" written on it. I didn't get it, and it was no one's fault but my own. I was distracted...maybe by grief, maybe by the over-sized cookies Sally brought to the divvying-up event. Kelly got it, and it's displayed prominently in his house. "I love it," Susan gushed, when Sally and I visited recently. I thought about grabbing it, and running to the Fit, and driving until I crossed into Canada. But I took a deep breath and thought about the cool things I did score: a long-sleeved plaid cotton shirt that I can wear like a cocktail dress, a container of Tums that I keep in the glove box, the suitable-for-framing piece of tree bark, the three feathers to which Dan attached pens and keeps on his desk, and one of the Sydney Harris books, in which Tank wrote "Please return to: TANK." He included his address and offered a polite "thank you." The book smells of his house...like seawater, like sunshine.
Peggy made me a beautiful bracelet for my birthday. It has a don't-blame-don't-complain theme. When I wear it, I spend slightly less time blaming and complaining.
I was chatting with a friend recently, and I said--of a mutual friend--"He's never been allowed to be himself." Once we're adults, though, "being oneself" doesn't require the permission or encouragement of others (although many of us get confused and think it does). Tank--especially the last dozen years or so--was very determined to be himself, and he derived great pleasure from doing so. He didn't always manage it, of course, and a case could probably be made that "being himself" wasn't always in his best long-term interest. Few achieve and maintain the level of clarity that allows one to express the self of today without harming (to some degree) the self of tomorrow.
But even so... I always got the impression that Tank was trying to get the most from a moment by making it uniquely his own...by turning off the voice that told him what others expected, what tradition dictated, what was standard operational procedure, what was prudent. Tank understood that much of what we take to be mandatory is actually optional.
I know that my effusive praise of Tank sets him up for criticism. He would be the first to assert that his mistakes would fill the back of an F-150 to overflowing. And that--if lucky--one acquires wisdom with age, but one still makes mistakes at an alarming rate.
In addition to Tank's bulkier stuff, there was a huge box of story ideas, notes-to-self, and correspondence, which I divided among the four of us, shamelessly keeping the best for myself (sometimes, I made copies). Eventually, I'll blog about each and every scrap of paper. Like me, Tank was comfortable throwing away correspondence once it was read, so I was surprised when I found a Thoreau quote that I sent him, cut from a magazine and inserted in a letter. It reads: "There is no remedy for love but to love more."
I had a credit at Amazon.com, so I recently ordered five Simon and Garfunkel CDs, because I only had albums. I've been listening to them in the car, and today--it was inevitable--I suddenly heard the unmistakable first notes of "The Boxer," one of Tank's favorite songs. Besides its musical perfection, it's clear to me why Tank loved this song. After 9/11, when normal TV programming resumed, Paul Simon was the musical guest on "Saturday Night Live," and he sang "The Boxer." It's an ode to resilience. "In the clearing stands a boxer..." The song takes a while to end, with just enough lie-la-lie's to suit me. But this time, as I listened to the song end, I imagined Tank turning and walking away from me, with that football-injury gait, his arm up to wave a final time. As he waves, his face is already turned away from me, in a posture that would seem dismissive if it weren't so familiar and affectionate. Try thinking about that while you listen to "The Boxer." "I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains."
Friday, May 27, 2011
27 May 2011
Hi there! A few days ago, Sally and I sprinkled some of Tank's ashes on Nola's grave. About one-half cup, fyi. I sprinkled them at the headstone/grass boundary. So, if you visit, say howdy to Tank, too.
Yesterday, it was four months.
When my siblings and I visited Tank in November, when he had the brain biopsy, he was not always lucid (but he was always adorable). He sometimes became confused about time frames. Once, I was alone with him, and he said the following. (I wrote it down immediately, so I wouldn't forget. I'm copying it from my journal now.)
"I was with Nola the other day, and we were down by the docks. The dock was wooden, which is unusual nowadays. We were in a car. Your mom looked beautiful, in a dress, and a hat, but only one glove. Suddenly, I couldn't find her, and I looked around for her, but she was gone. Where could she have gone, I wondered. I opened the trunk of the car, and there she was. She got out, still with just the one glove on, and--suddenly--she jumped into the water! Right off the edge of the pier! But she can't swim! She never learned to swim! So I jumped in after her, and I tried to save her, but I couldn't. I just couldn't get to her, to save her. I couldn't reach her. Finally, I climbed out of the water, and I drove home without her. I wandered around the apartment--remember that little apartment where we lived in San Pedro?--but she wasn't there. I couldn't find her. She was gone."
On a happier note... A couple of months ago, my great-nephew E spent the night, and I suggested he fetch a stack of books from my study for bedtime reading. Among others, he brought the Dr. Seuss classic "Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?" Tank sent it when my son was born, almost 27 years ago. Inside, Tank wrote, "...To have a Mom like Polly. Her Dad." There's also a small drawing of a tank, of course. I said to E, "Did you choose this book because you knew it would make me happy?" "No!" he said, with a sweet smile. "I just chose it at random!" I smiled, too, 'cause I'd never heard him use that figure of speech before. I read it, and the others, and he wasn't sleeping yet, so I suggested he fetch more. "Why don't you read this one again," he said, picking up the Dr. Seuss book. "Okay," I said. He cuddled up next to me and said, "This time I chose it because I knew it would make you happy." Without question, some people are muchly much-much more unlucky than me.
When Tank visited my family in Dallas in about 2000, he was feeling pretty good. He and his wife had been living separately, but were meeting up in Dallas and traveling back to California together. He'd lost some weight, and had a lot of energy, and you know how it is: When you love yourself, loving others (madly, passionately, comprehensively, incandescently) is the easiest thing in the world. We were hanging out at home, and Tank suggested that he cook a meal for us. My husband poured wine for himself and for Tank, and that little gesture seemed to set the stage for the meal prep. The rest of us perched on bar stools while Tank whipped up something delightful with eggs, feta cheese, and barely cooked spinach. His gestures were broad, his laugh filled the large room, and he seemed completely relaxed and confident in that kitchen, pausing occasionally for a sip of red wine, and to hold us in his affectionate and openhearted gaze.
I've been talking with my sisters about the differences between Tank's death and Nola's death. For me, Nola's death felt like standing in the ocean, water to my waist, facing the shoreline, and being knocked over by a huge and unexpected wave. Suddenly, I'm in deep water, completely disoriented, my lungs filling. Then, darkness. When I regain consciousness, I'm lying in wet sand, and seaweed is tangled in my hair. I stumble to my feet, and eventually resume my young-adult life.
Tank's death also felt like standing in the ocean with water to my waist, but with my back to the shoreline. I see the huge wave as it approaches. Again and again, it seems to advance and retreat. Then, suddenly, it hits, knocking the wind out of me. I topple, tasting the briny water. Eventually, the sea calms, but I remain there in the surf, unable or unwilling to leave. I can look away from the ocean and see the white sand, the ice plant, the paved road...but I sit cross-legged in the warm water, awaiting his return.
With apologies to Joan, I'm glad that Robert Parker died before Tank did. I couldn't stand a conversation with one of my siblings that included the words, "Tank would have loved this book. He would have sent copies to all of us. A decade from now, he'd still be snatching up copies at used bookstores." It reminds me of the last line in "Catcher in the Rye" about "missing everybody." We told Tank things, and he told us things, and the agony of "missing" is fueled by every conversation we had, every laugh we shared, every letter we exchanged. "Tank would love this," I often think, and sometimes say aloud. (I also know that Sally would love a necklace made of peace signs and butterflies and daisies all strung together in a cheerful fashion, and that Kelly has the latest Jason Isbell CD and would share a lyric or two if I called him right now, and that Peggy is shopping for shoes as I type--maybe something a little Kardashian'd, but not too Kardashian'd.) Love and pain are as solidly linked as rice and beans, as jeans and T-shirts, as Laugh and Lots.
A couple of months ago, we divided Tank's stuff. I was fascinated by what he kept and what he didn't keep. I'll post a list later. Take care! Polly.
Yesterday, it was four months.
When my siblings and I visited Tank in November, when he had the brain biopsy, he was not always lucid (but he was always adorable). He sometimes became confused about time frames. Once, I was alone with him, and he said the following. (I wrote it down immediately, so I wouldn't forget. I'm copying it from my journal now.)
"I was with Nola the other day, and we were down by the docks. The dock was wooden, which is unusual nowadays. We were in a car. Your mom looked beautiful, in a dress, and a hat, but only one glove. Suddenly, I couldn't find her, and I looked around for her, but she was gone. Where could she have gone, I wondered. I opened the trunk of the car, and there she was. She got out, still with just the one glove on, and--suddenly--she jumped into the water! Right off the edge of the pier! But she can't swim! She never learned to swim! So I jumped in after her, and I tried to save her, but I couldn't. I just couldn't get to her, to save her. I couldn't reach her. Finally, I climbed out of the water, and I drove home without her. I wandered around the apartment--remember that little apartment where we lived in San Pedro?--but she wasn't there. I couldn't find her. She was gone."
On a happier note... A couple of months ago, my great-nephew E spent the night, and I suggested he fetch a stack of books from my study for bedtime reading. Among others, he brought the Dr. Seuss classic "Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?" Tank sent it when my son was born, almost 27 years ago. Inside, Tank wrote, "...To have a Mom like Polly. Her Dad." There's also a small drawing of a tank, of course. I said to E, "Did you choose this book because you knew it would make me happy?" "No!" he said, with a sweet smile. "I just chose it at random!" I smiled, too, 'cause I'd never heard him use that figure of speech before. I read it, and the others, and he wasn't sleeping yet, so I suggested he fetch more. "Why don't you read this one again," he said, picking up the Dr. Seuss book. "Okay," I said. He cuddled up next to me and said, "This time I chose it because I knew it would make you happy." Without question, some people are muchly much-much more unlucky than me.
When Tank visited my family in Dallas in about 2000, he was feeling pretty good. He and his wife had been living separately, but were meeting up in Dallas and traveling back to California together. He'd lost some weight, and had a lot of energy, and you know how it is: When you love yourself, loving others (madly, passionately, comprehensively, incandescently) is the easiest thing in the world. We were hanging out at home, and Tank suggested that he cook a meal for us. My husband poured wine for himself and for Tank, and that little gesture seemed to set the stage for the meal prep. The rest of us perched on bar stools while Tank whipped up something delightful with eggs, feta cheese, and barely cooked spinach. His gestures were broad, his laugh filled the large room, and he seemed completely relaxed and confident in that kitchen, pausing occasionally for a sip of red wine, and to hold us in his affectionate and openhearted gaze.
I've been talking with my sisters about the differences between Tank's death and Nola's death. For me, Nola's death felt like standing in the ocean, water to my waist, facing the shoreline, and being knocked over by a huge and unexpected wave. Suddenly, I'm in deep water, completely disoriented, my lungs filling. Then, darkness. When I regain consciousness, I'm lying in wet sand, and seaweed is tangled in my hair. I stumble to my feet, and eventually resume my young-adult life.
Tank's death also felt like standing in the ocean with water to my waist, but with my back to the shoreline. I see the huge wave as it approaches. Again and again, it seems to advance and retreat. Then, suddenly, it hits, knocking the wind out of me. I topple, tasting the briny water. Eventually, the sea calms, but I remain there in the surf, unable or unwilling to leave. I can look away from the ocean and see the white sand, the ice plant, the paved road...but I sit cross-legged in the warm water, awaiting his return.
With apologies to Joan, I'm glad that Robert Parker died before Tank did. I couldn't stand a conversation with one of my siblings that included the words, "Tank would have loved this book. He would have sent copies to all of us. A decade from now, he'd still be snatching up copies at used bookstores." It reminds me of the last line in "Catcher in the Rye" about "missing everybody." We told Tank things, and he told us things, and the agony of "missing" is fueled by every conversation we had, every laugh we shared, every letter we exchanged. "Tank would love this," I often think, and sometimes say aloud. (I also know that Sally would love a necklace made of peace signs and butterflies and daisies all strung together in a cheerful fashion, and that Kelly has the latest Jason Isbell CD and would share a lyric or two if I called him right now, and that Peggy is shopping for shoes as I type--maybe something a little Kardashian'd, but not too Kardashian'd.) Love and pain are as solidly linked as rice and beans, as jeans and T-shirts, as Laugh and Lots.
A couple of months ago, we divided Tank's stuff. I was fascinated by what he kept and what he didn't keep. I'll post a list later. Take care! Polly.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
2/9/2011
It probably goes without saying that this blog entry will have more to do with me than with Tank.
I'm at home, typing in my small study that is now crammed with Tank's stuff. There are boxes and bags on every surface. I'll go pick up a few things at random, and describe them. You know...for fun.
The first item is 1 of about 20 empty coffee cans with lids (SLO Roasted Coffee, decaf, "pungent flavored," 12 ounces). Before he died, Tank suggested I take them home so the little boys could stack them and then knock them over with a ball or beanbag. The cans are all exactly the same, and fit neatly in a cardboard box. The second item is a hard-cover book called "Origin of Sea Terms." I'll pick a term: "Isogonic lines" are lines (on a chart) of equal magnetic variation. I'll find one that's a bit more...conversational. "Shanghai" means enforced "volunteering" to raise a crew. As in, "I wonder how many times I can Shanghai Dan into taking me to La Puente for lunch because I need consoling." The third item is a fistful of neatly rolled rope (like clothesline) that I found in the trunk of his car. I wonder what emergency he anticipated, and what role the rope would play. Also, as I type, I'm wearing another of his hats. It's a well-worn off-white bucket hat with navy-blue trim and the the embroidered words "Morro Bay." I look like a chubby Gilligan.
Peggy and I returned home last night from a three-day trip to Morro Bay. We left Salt Lake early Sunday morning and drove straight through. Time passed quickly and pleasantly. We laughed lots, and then we laughed some more. This is the Honda Fit's fifth trip in less than three months, and it continues to perform flawlessly (and get 35 mph). We talked nonstop, except once when I played "The Wonder of You" sung by Elvis Presley, because it reminds me of Tank. I'll share the lyrics:
When no one else can understand me
When everything I do is wrong
You give me hope and consolation
You give me strength to carry on...
And you're always there to lend a hand
In everything I do
That's the wonder...
The wonder of you.
And when you smile the world is brighter
You touch my hand and I'm a king
Your kiss to me is worth a fortune
Your love for me is everything...
I'll guess I'll never know the reason why
You love me like you do
That's the wonder...
The wonder of you.
After checking into Motel 6, we went to the Whale's Tail for dinner (fish and chips). After a long day on the road, Peggy still looked cute. We crashed at the motel and got an early start the next day.
I didn't ask Peggy if she chose her outfit that morning with the intention of honoring Nola; I just assume she did. She wore tight and slightly faded blue jeans, a fitted gray-and-white-checked cotton shirt over a gray camisole, and tennis shoes. She wore more silver jewelry than one might deem appropriate for that level of casualness, but she made it work. While I showered, Peggy walked on the beach. At the Hungry Fisherman, we shared eggs Benedict. In San Luis Obispo, Peggy shopped while I watched. Peggy drove north to Cayucos, and we walked out on the pier, which I'd never done before. It was a gorgeous day. It was fun, but it would have been so much better if we'd been able to tell Tank about it, and feel his glow of approval. Eventually, I'll need to get past that feeling.
We went to lunch in Morro Bay, at Dockside Too. I had a fish taco, Peggy had a steak taco, and we shared chicken taquitos (a favorite of Tank's). We found a small table right on the water, and relaxed with our tasty meal. There was a friendly yellow lab wandering from table to table. There was a man playing a guitar and singing: the Beatles, Peter Frampton, Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" ("I turned to look but it was gone..."). Peggy said, "This guy must be exactly your age." I tipped him, and we left.
I called Terry and told her we'd be by later. She had appointments during the day, so it was okay to wait and meet up for dinner. Peggy and I drove to an avocado orchard (and a little store) about five minutes up Highway 41. Sally had told us about it. So cool! I want to go again! A middle-aged woman shared so much information about avocados! Did you know that some types of avocados spend two years on the tree? We bought several varieties, along with other locally produced items (jars of pickled asparagus and spicy tarter sauce, bags of beef jerky and merlot-flavored candy), and the woman gave us each a ripe avocado for the road. Free!
We stopped at Spencer's Market, and then drove to Terry's house. She wasn't there yet, so Peggy and I had some time alone with Tank's...space. It was strange. We wandered about some, and sat and talked some. It feels less like Tank, and not just because most of his stuff is gone. We've always liked the place, and we certainly like Terry's decorating style. It's still beautiful and tasteful, but...it lacks Tank's energy and passion, the sound of his voice, the space taken up by his body. For me, it was eerie, but not necessarily sad (kind of sad, but not overwhelmingly so). It did not seem to me that Tank was...lingering here. I remember visiting Nola's apartment in San Pedro two months after she died. The air felt thick with her presence. There was this...viscosity. I felt like I needed to sit down because of an increased gravitational pull in the room. But...it wasn't like that with Tank. The air seemed lighter; the room seemed less occupied.
Tank never struck me as a believer in the mystical (which is probably one of the reasons I'm not a believer in the mystical). However, a month or so before he died, when he was talking about death, he said that he didn't think that this was it. He said he imagined that the day he was born he was plopped down on earth, and that the day he died he would be plucked back up. Using his fingers, he made motions as if moving a chess piece. He didn't speculate as to what or who was doing the plopping and the plucking, and where he (Tank) was before and would be after. He didn't seem to be pondering, and he didn't seem to be invested in the theory, but--rather--just thinking aloud. He certainly didn't believe in God, and this brief conversation in no way led me to think that he was edging toward a belief in God. Instead, I was reminded of that line from "Lord of the Rings:" "Death is just another path." I suppose that's possible.
Anyway...we loaded the rest of Tank's stuff into the car. Terry got home, and we hugged, and chatted briefly. She gave us a box of ashes (half of Tank's ashes) and the flag from the navy. She told us that last week she and daughter Katherine scattered the other half of Tank's ashes along the coastline, at several locations. That seemed to bring her peace, and resolution. We went to dinner at Dockside (as opposed to Dockside Too, which offers patio dining, and is behind Dockside). Terry and I had shrimp bisque, Peggy had a side salad, and Peggy and I shared shrimp and chips.
Neither Peggy nor I slept well that night. Before dawn, we hit the road. It felt okay to be leaving so quickly. The day was clear and warm, and we made good time: Atascadaro (breakfast), Paso Robles, Lost Hills, Wasco, Bakersfield, Tehachapi, Boron, Barstow, Baker, Primm (lunch), Las Vegas, Mesquite, St. George, Cedar City, Beaver, Fillmore, Scipio (treats), Nephi, road construction, and Draper. Mike met us at my house, with a bag of corn chips so that Dan and I could have guacamole for dinner with the Morro Bay avocados (thanks, Mike). Mike and Peggy grabbed a few treasures from the car, and headed on out.
I'm at home, typing in my small study that is now crammed with Tank's stuff. There are boxes and bags on every surface. I'll go pick up a few things at random, and describe them. You know...for fun.
The first item is 1 of about 20 empty coffee cans with lids (SLO Roasted Coffee, decaf, "pungent flavored," 12 ounces). Before he died, Tank suggested I take them home so the little boys could stack them and then knock them over with a ball or beanbag. The cans are all exactly the same, and fit neatly in a cardboard box. The second item is a hard-cover book called "Origin of Sea Terms." I'll pick a term: "Isogonic lines" are lines (on a chart) of equal magnetic variation. I'll find one that's a bit more...conversational. "Shanghai" means enforced "volunteering" to raise a crew. As in, "I wonder how many times I can Shanghai Dan into taking me to La Puente for lunch because I need consoling." The third item is a fistful of neatly rolled rope (like clothesline) that I found in the trunk of his car. I wonder what emergency he anticipated, and what role the rope would play. Also, as I type, I'm wearing another of his hats. It's a well-worn off-white bucket hat with navy-blue trim and the the embroidered words "Morro Bay." I look like a chubby Gilligan.
Peggy and I returned home last night from a three-day trip to Morro Bay. We left Salt Lake early Sunday morning and drove straight through. Time passed quickly and pleasantly. We laughed lots, and then we laughed some more. This is the Honda Fit's fifth trip in less than three months, and it continues to perform flawlessly (and get 35 mph). We talked nonstop, except once when I played "The Wonder of You" sung by Elvis Presley, because it reminds me of Tank. I'll share the lyrics:
When no one else can understand me
When everything I do is wrong
You give me hope and consolation
You give me strength to carry on...
And you're always there to lend a hand
In everything I do
That's the wonder...
The wonder of you.
And when you smile the world is brighter
You touch my hand and I'm a king
Your kiss to me is worth a fortune
Your love for me is everything...
I'll guess I'll never know the reason why
You love me like you do
That's the wonder...
The wonder of you.
After checking into Motel 6, we went to the Whale's Tail for dinner (fish and chips). After a long day on the road, Peggy still looked cute. We crashed at the motel and got an early start the next day.
I didn't ask Peggy if she chose her outfit that morning with the intention of honoring Nola; I just assume she did. She wore tight and slightly faded blue jeans, a fitted gray-and-white-checked cotton shirt over a gray camisole, and tennis shoes. She wore more silver jewelry than one might deem appropriate for that level of casualness, but she made it work. While I showered, Peggy walked on the beach. At the Hungry Fisherman, we shared eggs Benedict. In San Luis Obispo, Peggy shopped while I watched. Peggy drove north to Cayucos, and we walked out on the pier, which I'd never done before. It was a gorgeous day. It was fun, but it would have been so much better if we'd been able to tell Tank about it, and feel his glow of approval. Eventually, I'll need to get past that feeling.
We went to lunch in Morro Bay, at Dockside Too. I had a fish taco, Peggy had a steak taco, and we shared chicken taquitos (a favorite of Tank's). We found a small table right on the water, and relaxed with our tasty meal. There was a friendly yellow lab wandering from table to table. There was a man playing a guitar and singing: the Beatles, Peter Frampton, Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" ("I turned to look but it was gone..."). Peggy said, "This guy must be exactly your age." I tipped him, and we left.
I called Terry and told her we'd be by later. She had appointments during the day, so it was okay to wait and meet up for dinner. Peggy and I drove to an avocado orchard (and a little store) about five minutes up Highway 41. Sally had told us about it. So cool! I want to go again! A middle-aged woman shared so much information about avocados! Did you know that some types of avocados spend two years on the tree? We bought several varieties, along with other locally produced items (jars of pickled asparagus and spicy tarter sauce, bags of beef jerky and merlot-flavored candy), and the woman gave us each a ripe avocado for the road. Free!
We stopped at Spencer's Market, and then drove to Terry's house. She wasn't there yet, so Peggy and I had some time alone with Tank's...space. It was strange. We wandered about some, and sat and talked some. It feels less like Tank, and not just because most of his stuff is gone. We've always liked the place, and we certainly like Terry's decorating style. It's still beautiful and tasteful, but...it lacks Tank's energy and passion, the sound of his voice, the space taken up by his body. For me, it was eerie, but not necessarily sad (kind of sad, but not overwhelmingly so). It did not seem to me that Tank was...lingering here. I remember visiting Nola's apartment in San Pedro two months after she died. The air felt thick with her presence. There was this...viscosity. I felt like I needed to sit down because of an increased gravitational pull in the room. But...it wasn't like that with Tank. The air seemed lighter; the room seemed less occupied.
Tank never struck me as a believer in the mystical (which is probably one of the reasons I'm not a believer in the mystical). However, a month or so before he died, when he was talking about death, he said that he didn't think that this was it. He said he imagined that the day he was born he was plopped down on earth, and that the day he died he would be plucked back up. Using his fingers, he made motions as if moving a chess piece. He didn't speculate as to what or who was doing the plopping and the plucking, and where he (Tank) was before and would be after. He didn't seem to be pondering, and he didn't seem to be invested in the theory, but--rather--just thinking aloud. He certainly didn't believe in God, and this brief conversation in no way led me to think that he was edging toward a belief in God. Instead, I was reminded of that line from "Lord of the Rings:" "Death is just another path." I suppose that's possible.
Anyway...we loaded the rest of Tank's stuff into the car. Terry got home, and we hugged, and chatted briefly. She gave us a box of ashes (half of Tank's ashes) and the flag from the navy. She told us that last week she and daughter Katherine scattered the other half of Tank's ashes along the coastline, at several locations. That seemed to bring her peace, and resolution. We went to dinner at Dockside (as opposed to Dockside Too, which offers patio dining, and is behind Dockside). Terry and I had shrimp bisque, Peggy had a side salad, and Peggy and I shared shrimp and chips.
Neither Peggy nor I slept well that night. Before dawn, we hit the road. It felt okay to be leaving so quickly. The day was clear and warm, and we made good time: Atascadaro (breakfast), Paso Robles, Lost Hills, Wasco, Bakersfield, Tehachapi, Boron, Barstow, Baker, Primm (lunch), Las Vegas, Mesquite, St. George, Cedar City, Beaver, Fillmore, Scipio (treats), Nephi, road construction, and Draper. Mike met us at my house, with a bag of corn chips so that Dan and I could have guacamole for dinner with the Morro Bay avocados (thanks, Mike). Mike and Peggy grabbed a few treasures from the car, and headed on out.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
2/1/2011
Many thanks to Peggy for writing the charming obituary. I hope she doesn't mind that I added that last line. Peggy is also submitting Tank's navy discharge papers, to get the flag. It's wonderful to be home, and to continue to hear from folks who loved Tank. The obituary is in the Salt Lake Tribune today, and should be in the Provo Herald tomorrow. I submitted it to the Daily Breeze in San Pedro, too.
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