Stuff I don't want to forget

GOODNESS IS ALWAYS THERE

You have something in yourself that is fundamentally, basically good. It transcends the notion of good or bad. Something that is worthwhile, wholesome, and healthy exists in all of us....Such goodness is synonymous with bravery. It is always there. Whenever you see a bright and beautiful color, you are witnessing your own inherent goodness. Whenever you hear a sweet and beautiful sound, you are hearing your own basic goodness. Whenever you taste something sweet or sour, you are experiencing your own basic goodness....Things like that are always happening to you, but you have been ignoring them, thinking that they are mundane and unimportant, purely coincidences of an ordinary nature. However, it is worthwhile to take advantage of anything that happens to you that has that particular nature of goodness. You begin to realize that there is nonaggression happening all around you in your life, and you are able to feel the freshness of realizing your goodness, again and again.

Chogyam Trungpa

Stuff my dad said that I don't want to forget--

"I felt like a penny watin' for change" -- means he feels low, bereft of dignity sort of akin to the current-- "and I'm left standing here with my dick in my hand"---



When we were at an intersection and we couldn't get into the flow of traffic because there were so many cars he would say--wryly...
"Well, lookit here, a parade - and we're not in it."

Also he was often "madder than a popcorn fart" ( I never quite got this but understood the mad part...) or madder than a "fart in a frying pan" (ah, the fart references....)

And of course the many names of Jesus. Jesus Christ on a crutch, Jesus Christ on a bicycle. Jesus H.T. Christ (I dunno what it meant-but he said it) Jesus H Christ (more common)

How the world was going to hell: "on a bicycle" (the cycling theme runs through his words- interesting- never saw him on one ever), "In a hatbox", "in a handbasket", "in a rowboat".

When we were going to get a spanking as punishment he'd say we were "goin' to the woodshed." (I know that's a farmerish reference but we were in a suburb in St.Paul, MN- not particularly farm-like)

And the ever popular- "your ass is grass. And I'm the lawnmower."

words I NEVER heard my dad say-- good. happy. pleasant. sure. kind. Not even in conversation. I never heard him say hate. fear or bad either, though.

Words he often used-- don't. why? what's the matter with you?

The story about lying he always told:

A little boy was a terrible liar and one day his dad said, "Every time you tell a lie, I'm going to put a nail into this 2x4." Eventually the 2x4 was filled with nails and the little boy saw how many lies there were and he felt bad about it. He wanted to change this and his dad said, "Well, every time you tell the truth, I'll pull one of the nails out." So the boy tried hard to always be truthful and one day all the nails were gone. When the father showed the boy the board, the boy burst into tears. "Why are you crying, son?" he asked. "Because," the boy replied, "The holes are still there."

I guess this was to illustrate that once you tell a lie the damage has already been done so don't tell lies and you won't have to worry about it.

My dad was not much of a liar. I don't think he was anyway. He was, like all humans, too busy lying to himself.

My dad's handwriting was sloppy but his printing was the squarish hand of an engineer. It always amazed me to look at- it was like artwork with numbers and letters. There was a confidence in it that he never had as a husband or father. He knew math and chemistry well. He felt comfortable with it, it allowed him to express himself. Unfortunately, none of our family had the same vocabulary as he did-- but I loved the way it looked.

Sometimes my brother Bill wears Aqua Velva or some other drugstore after shave and mixed with a bit of cigarette smoke and the smell of beer, it smells like dad in the 80's and 90's. Back in the late 50's and early 60's Dad smelled more like ivory soap, fresh cut grass and musk. That was back in the days when he always wore a hat and cufflinks. We started dinner with a shrimp cocktail (which was liberally sprinkled with chopped celery). He drank Manhattans before dinner- always. For 40 years he did this. And beer. Just not as much as when the 70's hit. In the 50's and 60's he drank beer like a casual consumer of it.

His deep abiding thirst for alcohol did not consume him fully until the 80's. I didn't live at home then so I just saw it occasionally. My brothers and sisters saw that guy. The guy with the flannel shirts and the grey maintenance-man pants (he always had the uniform of a janitor even though he remained employed as a chemical engineer --I think he just FELT like a janitor. So he dressed the part.)

He and my mother used to sing in the car- the little yellow Rambler we had. Our house on Hilton court was white with yellow shutters. ( I wonder if this is why I love the color yellow so much?) My mom would harmonize. They sang "If I Had My Way Dear" and "Dear Old Girl" and "Nothing Could Be Finer (Than to Be in Carolina in the Morning)", "Nobody" (this song was so sad that when my dad sang it I would always burst into tears), "In The Evening By The Moonlight", "After the Ball Is Over," George M Cohan's "Mary", "I'm Always Chasing Rainbows" (Now that I look at this list- these sure are sad songs for the most part) Oh- and that "H-A-double R-I- G-A- N spells Harrigan" song. They loved to sing.

Even when my dad wouldn't sing anymore (- I don't know what happened- it was like he lost his singing voice. All of a sudden he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket) he would request songs from me and my mom. She would play the organ and we would both sing. He used to request "British Grenadiers" (I still know the words to that) "It's a Grand Old Flag" (ever the Cohan fan he often requested "Mary" too), Jolson tunes like "Mammy" and "Sonny Boy".

He loved the trumpet and his most played albums were Al Hurt- Man With a Horn and Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass-Whipped Cream and Other Delights and Tijuana Taxi.

He used to belong to a Classical Record Club when he was in college and I used to play those records constantly on my little red and white record player. It was pretty straight stuff for the most part- Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, Tchaikowsky (sp?). The Shubert always made me sad. The Wagner scared me. I leaned towards the pedestrian and spirited- The Hungarian Dances of Liszt and of course, the Nutcracker.

But without a doubt the work that I played incessantly and can still repeat most every note of in my head is Saint-Saens "Carnival of the Animals" (a toss-off piece that he wrote to amuse himself and others...). I used to conduct this in my bedroom with a pencil and great dramatic arm flourishes. I was about 7 or 8. It amused my dad tremendously and when he would catch a glimpse of me doing it, I would be abashed and embarrassed. He would say "Jean, look at this kid!" as though I were a product of some other planet. He said it to amuse my mom who would giggle and say "What are you doing Hollyann? Are you conducting the symphony?" I would be so red with embarrassment I could hardly nod.

My mom had Patti Page and Doris Day albums that I used to sing along with and mom and dad both had musicals I played all the time: South Pacific (never my favorite), My Fair Lady (knew them all), Oklahoma (O.K.!!!), Kiss Me Kate (Where is the Life that once I led?- loved it. Always a favorite.) My dad adored Sigmund Romberg and the other guy I can't think of right now- viennese-- and he had "The Student Prince" and a few others on album. They were a little thick and ornate for me but I did play and sing them.

This is supposed to be about my dad mostly but I now remember that it is at this precise point in my life where I first started crying when I heard music that moved me. I could hardly conduct it for the tears. It isn't sadness that motivates the tears it is some unearthly ecstasy that moves me. I have never been able to stop this and, in fact, eschew going to the symphony because just the orchestra tuning up starts the tears flowing. I weep from the beauty and the tone and the vibrations. I must say that this is quite an inconvenient reaction and I've always been very chagrined by it. I can't even talk about it without thinking of some music that moves me and tears start to flow. It's crazy. And so am I- ha! By the way, I think my dad understood this reaction to music pretty well.

Oh- The Irish Rovers- dad loved them. He had several of these albums as well.