I will never forget Bob Swartzendruber. He had a memorable name, and he was an unforgettable character. We met when I was just a little kid, maybe five or six years old, and they moved in next door. A couple of years older and a lot bigger, he quickly became the "alpha" dog in the neighborhood under-ten-year-old set pecking order. He was tough, and could have been a menace, because I was such a little pipsqueak; but he became my friend, and my bodyguard. He occasionally picked on me, just for drill; but nobody else could. We played together and got into normal kid mischief; and from the time Bob came to town, I never again got overlooked or chosen last or had somebody say, "You take Piatt," when it was time to pick teams.
Yet what I remember most about him was that you could never get the best of him. In addition to his powerful personality, his athletic ability, his size and his toughness; he could talk you into, or out of, just about anything. Whatever you had, his was bigger. Wherever you had gone, he'd been there twice. If you saw a good movie, he saw it first and got in free. If your new skates cost fifteen dollars, his had cost twenty. I always suspected that he was making it up and was tempted at times to call him on it, but I wasn't completely witless, and as the "omega" kid around there I did as little as possible that might get me flattened.
Now about this time we had a serious problem in our household, at least serious for me. As the youngest of three brothers, I was also the "omega" kid at our dinner table; so whenever there was a holiday that called for a roast turkey or a chicken, I never got a drumstick, my favorite. At Thanksgiving and Christmas my big brothers always seemed to get the legs, while I ended up with a wing. It's just not the same, and it wasn't fair. Occasionallly my mother would intervene and give me the drumstick; but that was not really a pleasure that I could savor, because depriving an older brother of a drumstick could be hazardous to one's health when the parents weren't around. In some ways my entire early childhood can be summed up in the sad and hapless phrase, "drumstick deprivation."
Then one glorious holiday my dad put on his cooking mitts, lifted the turkey out of the oven, brought it to the table, announcing that he had found and prepared a four-legged turkey. And there it was, golden brown, steaming hot, with two massive drumsticks poking out of the back of the bird, and two more poking out of the front of the bird on either side of the opening with the stuffing. What a glorious day! Never was there a more delicious and happy dinner; and I was too giddy with turkish delight to think through the fact that there was really no such thing as a four-legged turkey.
Of course I had to tell my friend, Bob. So just before we ate I ran next door and told him to come right over and see the most amazing thing ever. So Bob dropped in, and my dad showed him the bird, saying, "Look, Bob, a four-legged turkey! There's an extra one for you." Without batting an eye or a moment's hesitation, he said, "That's OK, Mr. Piatt, we get those every Christmas. My dad has a friend who raises them."
Not longer after that Bob moved away, and we hardly ever saw them again. Several celebrations came and went before I realized how my dad had rigged the deal, how he had bought the turkey and a couple of extra jumbo "sticks," how he wired them to the front of the bird and basted them all around, and how you couldn't tell it was a fake, especially if you were a little kid and a little slow. Looking back, it was one of the coolest things a dad ever did for his kid.
And even though that Bob was such a liar, I didn't mind. He was my friend, the coolest of friends, and when he was gone I missed his looking out for me. What difference does it make if someone else claims a four-legged turkey, as long as you don't get stuck with a wing?
Monday, August 29, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Mighty Fine
My grandfather taught me a lot about tools, and he had a lot of them, as farmers do. They hung on nails against one wall or on nearby hooks overhead. Except that there were no pots or pans in the tool shed, it looked like a gourment chef's atelier, everything within easy reach. Naturally he had hand saws and hack saws and screwdrivers and pliers and wrenches and clamps and hammers of all descriptions. Plus he had all manner of grove gadgets and tools for common repairs in the house and in my grandmother's laundry shack where she also "canned" and kept her preserves from the bounty of the farm. Figs. Apricots. Peaches. All those weekends and school holidays and long summer stretches gave me time to learn how to use tools and to develop a life-long interest in puttering. Yes, he taught me a lot about tools, but that wasn't the most important thing he taught me.
My grandfather taught me how to fix things, and there was always something to fix on the farm. Fix the fence. Fix the sprinkler. Fix the lamp. Fix the leak. Fix the car. The work shop was under the same roof as the tool shed. There was a long work bench along the same wall, right under the tools, which made it easy for him, and later for me, to grab the right ones. This one-on-one tutorial in fixing things gave me a way of looking at the tool world and the school world. When something is broken, look at he problem from several sides, think about the different ways to solve it, and consider the tools at your disposal. With time and concentration and the right tool, you can usually find the fix. Yes, he taught me about problem-solving, but that wasn't the most important thing he taught me.
My grandfather taught me things about cars. Well, about his car, his 1948 Plymouth coupe. The tool shed and the work shop and the garage -- all the same room. Oh boy, he took care of that car. Checked the oil level and tire pressure all the time, and she was a beauty, spotless. Whenever we needed to go somewhere, or just move the car out because we needed the shop, he turned the key and tapped the push-button starter, and the car hummed immediately to life. Then he would wait five minutes for the car to warm up before backing out. You may say, what a waste of gas. Perhaps, but over a period of 16 years he drove about six thousand miles a year, and after those 16 years the car still ran as quietly and smoothly as the day he bought it. Plus, gas was about 15 cents a gallon. Yes, he taught me about taking care of cars and other more important things, but that wasn't the most important thing he taught me.
The most important and most memorable teachings took place after breakfast on the sun porch where my grandparents sat in their naughahyde rockers; and while she knitted and he stoked his pipe, they conducted their daily morning devotions. Over the years they subscribed to a couple of Bible study guides: "The Upper Room" and "The Daily Bread." For each day of the month there would be a lesson -- a brief written homily for each day -- with a corresponding passage from the Scriptures; and on those days when I sat with them, my grandfather would hand me his King James Version and tell me to find the Book of Romans, or Second Kings, or Mark, or wherever the reference was that day, and it was my job to read the verses. From the time I was old enough to read, this was my job at devotion time. I found out rather quckly how to locate book, chapter and verse. Over time I began to get a grasp of the story of the Bible from Genesis to Revelation, and the significance and the diverse covenants of the Old and New Testaments. Of course I also committed a fair amount of Scripture to memory, and one passage especially.
All the days of my time there added up to more than a year, and every single day of that time there was an immutable tradition. At the end of the Bible reading, my grandfather would say, in reference to whatever was read that morning, "That was a mighty fine Scripture (he was from Texas); but my favorite Scripture is Matthew 22:36-40." And then he would quote it, again from the KJV:
"Master, which is the great commandment in the law? Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets."
If I heard it once, I heard it 400 times; and my grandmother, maybe 4,000. Once or twice I sneaked a peak at my grandmother while grandfather was practicing his daily ritual; and although she had her eyes on the knitting needles, her lips moved along with his. I couldn't really tell if she was in scriptural agreement, or if there was a slight rolling of the eyes, as if to say, "I've heard this before."
Not only were those his favorite verses, but it was also the way I saw him live his life. He did love God with his whole heart, and he did love his neighbors whom he helped, and his grandson whom he taught, and the young men at the orphanage in nearby Fallbook to whom he delivered a trunkful of fresh fruits and vegetables every week. Love God and love your neighbor. Bible 101.
I remember those mornings and my grandfather and what was hidden in my heart so many years ago. What would my grandfather say if he knew that his grandson turned out to be a church-goer like him, took a sabbatical from his career as a teacher and became a preacher for a season, and not surprisingly cherishes the same Matthew 22:36-40 as a personal devotional favorite?
He think he would say, "Mighty fine."
My grandfather taught me how to fix things, and there was always something to fix on the farm. Fix the fence. Fix the sprinkler. Fix the lamp. Fix the leak. Fix the car. The work shop was under the same roof as the tool shed. There was a long work bench along the same wall, right under the tools, which made it easy for him, and later for me, to grab the right ones. This one-on-one tutorial in fixing things gave me a way of looking at the tool world and the school world. When something is broken, look at he problem from several sides, think about the different ways to solve it, and consider the tools at your disposal. With time and concentration and the right tool, you can usually find the fix. Yes, he taught me about problem-solving, but that wasn't the most important thing he taught me.
My grandfather taught me things about cars. Well, about his car, his 1948 Plymouth coupe. The tool shed and the work shop and the garage -- all the same room. Oh boy, he took care of that car. Checked the oil level and tire pressure all the time, and she was a beauty, spotless. Whenever we needed to go somewhere, or just move the car out because we needed the shop, he turned the key and tapped the push-button starter, and the car hummed immediately to life. Then he would wait five minutes for the car to warm up before backing out. You may say, what a waste of gas. Perhaps, but over a period of 16 years he drove about six thousand miles a year, and after those 16 years the car still ran as quietly and smoothly as the day he bought it. Plus, gas was about 15 cents a gallon. Yes, he taught me about taking care of cars and other more important things, but that wasn't the most important thing he taught me.
The most important and most memorable teachings took place after breakfast on the sun porch where my grandparents sat in their naughahyde rockers; and while she knitted and he stoked his pipe, they conducted their daily morning devotions. Over the years they subscribed to a couple of Bible study guides: "The Upper Room" and "The Daily Bread." For each day of the month there would be a lesson -- a brief written homily for each day -- with a corresponding passage from the Scriptures; and on those days when I sat with them, my grandfather would hand me his King James Version and tell me to find the Book of Romans, or Second Kings, or Mark, or wherever the reference was that day, and it was my job to read the verses. From the time I was old enough to read, this was my job at devotion time. I found out rather quckly how to locate book, chapter and verse. Over time I began to get a grasp of the story of the Bible from Genesis to Revelation, and the significance and the diverse covenants of the Old and New Testaments. Of course I also committed a fair amount of Scripture to memory, and one passage especially.
All the days of my time there added up to more than a year, and every single day of that time there was an immutable tradition. At the end of the Bible reading, my grandfather would say, in reference to whatever was read that morning, "That was a mighty fine Scripture (he was from Texas); but my favorite Scripture is Matthew 22:36-40." And then he would quote it, again from the KJV:
"Master, which is the great commandment in the law? Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets."
If I heard it once, I heard it 400 times; and my grandmother, maybe 4,000. Once or twice I sneaked a peak at my grandmother while grandfather was practicing his daily ritual; and although she had her eyes on the knitting needles, her lips moved along with his. I couldn't really tell if she was in scriptural agreement, or if there was a slight rolling of the eyes, as if to say, "I've heard this before."
Not only were those his favorite verses, but it was also the way I saw him live his life. He did love God with his whole heart, and he did love his neighbors whom he helped, and his grandson whom he taught, and the young men at the orphanage in nearby Fallbook to whom he delivered a trunkful of fresh fruits and vegetables every week. Love God and love your neighbor. Bible 101.
I remember those mornings and my grandfather and what was hidden in my heart so many years ago. What would my grandfather say if he knew that his grandson turned out to be a church-goer like him, took a sabbatical from his career as a teacher and became a preacher for a season, and not surprisingly cherishes the same Matthew 22:36-40 as a personal devotional favorite?
He think he would say, "Mighty fine."
Friday, August 19, 2011
City Boy
Multiple myeloma (bone marrow) cancer gives rise to tumors and lesions that attack the bones from within and without. Since there was evidence of these plasma cytomas and lytic lesions in the femurs, pelvis and lumbar area, among other body parts, an MRI was scheduled to look at the rest of my spine. I brought up to some of my cancer buddies and partners in the treatment center that I was going in for this procedure; and Oh!, the moanings and groanings and gnashing of teeth on my behalf.
"You'll hate it," they moaned. "It's miserable," they groaned. "Grrrrrrr," they gnashed.
There is a litany of reasons that you don't want to do this, they rued. (1) You have to lie absolutely still for 40 minutes! Well now, I do that every day, sometimes twice a day, sometimes longer than that. Where's the down side here? (2) It's cold in those rooms. They give you a blanket. (3) It's claustrophobic. Yes, I was in a narrow tube that was brightly lit and very close to my nose. It felt like I was back in the schoolhouse and facing a snug and wraparound smart board. However, normally when I am lying still for 40 minutes, my eyes are closed. Easy fix! (4) The gurney is real skinny. They got me on that one. When you are nearing 70 and not nearly as aerobic and get a little broad in the beam, you have to tuck your hands under your "bum" to fit them on the table. (5) And, it is really noisy. They put head phones on you to reduce the racket a bit, but it still can drive you crazy, like being on the loudest street in the loudest city with construction and banging and clattering and all manner of aural assault.
Construction, you say? Really? Town sounds, you say? Cars and trucks and things that go? Who put a penny on the track at the Durango and Silverton Railroad? Who stops and salivates at every crane or derrick or Peterbilt or super-concrete-extruder sidewalk and curb maker? Who sat for hours at the Sault Saint Marie locks and watched the tankers descend from Lake Superior to Lake Huron? What school principal stood along the security fence with all the 7th grade boys and watched the D-6 Cats tear up the fields when we renovated the sports facilities at Los Angeles Baptist Junior & Senior High School? Who stood behind the Christmas tree starting lights at the Winternationals and heard the roar and felt the ground shake as the Double-A Fuel Altereds burned their slicks and tore off down the quarter mile stretch? What bookish former educator thrives on the vicarious thrill that is the cacophony of the builders and the doers? And when you are supine and still and have your eyes closed, you can hear them all the better. Music is in the ear of the beholder.
Nacknacknacknacknacknacknack!
A guy working his rotator cuffs on the jackhammer.
Bdddddddddddddd!
Uh Oh! A bank robber with a submachine gun.
A-whoosh A-whoosh A-whoosh!
Oil rig! Rocker assembly, like a big bird steadily sipping.
Hmmmm Hmmmm Hmmmm Hmmmm!
Big rigs on the street.
Whrrrr! Whrrrr! Whrrr!
Tire place, pneumatic hammers driving lug nuts.
Clank-Clank-Clank-Clank-Clank!
Circus elephants rythmically pounding tent stakes.
Other sounds of the city! Repeats! Reverse Order! A satisfying syncopation!
Suddenly it stops; the silence is startling. Exit the tube. Oscar removes the head phones and my blanket and offers me a hand, to get up. "You do all right?" he asks. "No problem, except for (6) the co-pay."
However, it is not what it costs, but what it's worth. A week later we meet with the oncologist and he shows us the picture, and there in almost every "vert" is a lesion. He shakes his head and says the we were fortunate to get on this as soon as we did, because a delay of even a month or six weeks could have resulted in many compression fractures in the spinal column; but each "vert" is perfectly square, and the spaces are normal. Count my blessings! There was a perfect storm of heads-up play on the part of many medical professionals, both inside and outside of Kaiser Care, in a two-week period in the middle of June; and their sense of urgency and genuine concern were greatly responsible for the timely diagnosis and prompt treatment regimens which I am now enjoying. So here is a shout-out to some thoroughly on-the-ball care givers: Dr. Walter Burstein (primary care doctor, Simi Valley Kaiser clinic), Dr. Ted Chaffee (dentist, Simi Valley), Dr. Jonathan Nakano (oral surgeon, Thousand Oaks), Dr. Teresa Pusheck (ENT, Kaiser Woodland Hills), Dr. Robert Relle (maxillofacial surgeon, Kaiser Sunset), Dr. Warren Lok (oncologist/hematologist, Kaiser Woodland Hills), Dr. James Berenson (oncologist, Beverly Hills), Dr. Gary Schwartz (head of the Oncology Department at Kaiser Woodland Hills, who is managing my care), and of course Dr. Linda Bosserman, the managing partner at Wilshire Oncology Medical Group, who is also my dear sister-in-law, and who told me on June 18th that it was probably 85/15 that it was multiple myeloma. Thanks all! And while I am at it, kudos and deep appreciation to the nursing and support staff in the Oncology Treatment Center at Kaiser Woodland Hills, so caring. It may seem really strange to read this, but I look forward to my treatment days.
Finally, the treatments are going well. In just one month there has already been a dramatic reduction in the rib pain that bothered me for so long; it has been many days since my last vicodin. Plus there are still no sinister or pernicious side effects. Thanks be to those wonderful helpers above, and praise be to God for His tender merices.
"You'll hate it," they moaned. "It's miserable," they groaned. "Grrrrrrr," they gnashed.
There is a litany of reasons that you don't want to do this, they rued. (1) You have to lie absolutely still for 40 minutes! Well now, I do that every day, sometimes twice a day, sometimes longer than that. Where's the down side here? (2) It's cold in those rooms. They give you a blanket. (3) It's claustrophobic. Yes, I was in a narrow tube that was brightly lit and very close to my nose. It felt like I was back in the schoolhouse and facing a snug and wraparound smart board. However, normally when I am lying still for 40 minutes, my eyes are closed. Easy fix! (4) The gurney is real skinny. They got me on that one. When you are nearing 70 and not nearly as aerobic and get a little broad in the beam, you have to tuck your hands under your "bum" to fit them on the table. (5) And, it is really noisy. They put head phones on you to reduce the racket a bit, but it still can drive you crazy, like being on the loudest street in the loudest city with construction and banging and clattering and all manner of aural assault.
Construction, you say? Really? Town sounds, you say? Cars and trucks and things that go? Who put a penny on the track at the Durango and Silverton Railroad? Who stops and salivates at every crane or derrick or Peterbilt or super-concrete-extruder sidewalk and curb maker? Who sat for hours at the Sault Saint Marie locks and watched the tankers descend from Lake Superior to Lake Huron? What school principal stood along the security fence with all the 7th grade boys and watched the D-6 Cats tear up the fields when we renovated the sports facilities at Los Angeles Baptist Junior & Senior High School? Who stood behind the Christmas tree starting lights at the Winternationals and heard the roar and felt the ground shake as the Double-A Fuel Altereds burned their slicks and tore off down the quarter mile stretch? What bookish former educator thrives on the vicarious thrill that is the cacophony of the builders and the doers? And when you are supine and still and have your eyes closed, you can hear them all the better. Music is in the ear of the beholder.
Nacknacknacknacknacknacknack!
A guy working his rotator cuffs on the jackhammer.
Bdddddddddddddd!
Uh Oh! A bank robber with a submachine gun.
A-whoosh A-whoosh A-whoosh!
Oil rig! Rocker assembly, like a big bird steadily sipping.
Hmmmm Hmmmm Hmmmm Hmmmm!
Big rigs on the street.
Whrrrr! Whrrrr! Whrrr!
Tire place, pneumatic hammers driving lug nuts.
Clank-Clank-Clank-Clank-Clank!
Circus elephants rythmically pounding tent stakes.
Other sounds of the city! Repeats! Reverse Order! A satisfying syncopation!
Suddenly it stops; the silence is startling. Exit the tube. Oscar removes the head phones and my blanket and offers me a hand, to get up. "You do all right?" he asks. "No problem, except for (6) the co-pay."
However, it is not what it costs, but what it's worth. A week later we meet with the oncologist and he shows us the picture, and there in almost every "vert" is a lesion. He shakes his head and says the we were fortunate to get on this as soon as we did, because a delay of even a month or six weeks could have resulted in many compression fractures in the spinal column; but each "vert" is perfectly square, and the spaces are normal. Count my blessings! There was a perfect storm of heads-up play on the part of many medical professionals, both inside and outside of Kaiser Care, in a two-week period in the middle of June; and their sense of urgency and genuine concern were greatly responsible for the timely diagnosis and prompt treatment regimens which I am now enjoying. So here is a shout-out to some thoroughly on-the-ball care givers: Dr. Walter Burstein (primary care doctor, Simi Valley Kaiser clinic), Dr. Ted Chaffee (dentist, Simi Valley), Dr. Jonathan Nakano (oral surgeon, Thousand Oaks), Dr. Teresa Pusheck (ENT, Kaiser Woodland Hills), Dr. Robert Relle (maxillofacial surgeon, Kaiser Sunset), Dr. Warren Lok (oncologist/hematologist, Kaiser Woodland Hills), Dr. James Berenson (oncologist, Beverly Hills), Dr. Gary Schwartz (head of the Oncology Department at Kaiser Woodland Hills, who is managing my care), and of course Dr. Linda Bosserman, the managing partner at Wilshire Oncology Medical Group, who is also my dear sister-in-law, and who told me on June 18th that it was probably 85/15 that it was multiple myeloma. Thanks all! And while I am at it, kudos and deep appreciation to the nursing and support staff in the Oncology Treatment Center at Kaiser Woodland Hills, so caring. It may seem really strange to read this, but I look forward to my treatment days.
Finally, the treatments are going well. In just one month there has already been a dramatic reduction in the rib pain that bothered me for so long; it has been many days since my last vicodin. Plus there are still no sinister or pernicious side effects. Thanks be to those wonderful helpers above, and praise be to God for His tender merices.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
The Swan
We once played this parlor game. You draw someone's name out of a hat; and the purpose of the game is to get the others to know whose name you drew by describing him or her as a type of tree, or flower, or breed of cat or dog or horse, or a color, or a favorite book -- something that uniquely points to the identity of the one whose name was drawn, the one who is "it." So on my turn, I drew her name, and without hesitation I said, "A swan." My Swan. Everyone got it. She got it.
We met on the last Saturday of October in 1966. By rights we shouldn't have met at all. My original class had graduated the year before in June, but without me. I took some time off; it was a decision mutually agreed upon between the dean of the college and me. Let's just say I wasn't taking full advantage of the educational opportunity before me, more or less majoring in things that didn't involve going to the library. True, there were some understandable distractions. It was during my sophomore and junior years that my dad was diagnosed with and under treatment for his first waves of cancer, and there were many trips from Claremont to Hollywood Presbyterian. So for many reasons, some of them perhaps legit, I was on the six-year plan. Turns out, the timing was perfect.
For on this particular Saturday afternoon I was studying on campus. This time through I did frequent the library; it had books and everything. I took a break to walk down to the stadium where the Pomona College Sagehens were butting helmets with the Occidental Tigers, and showed up at halftime. It was still an Indian summer, but November was close. Shirtsleeves now, but it would cool down later, so all the guys were wearing the uniform of the day, the sweater thrown over the shoulders with the sleeves tied in a knot down front, like a cashmere necktie, loosened.
There I ran into these buddies from my class, Don and John, and they were with their fiances from the current class, Linda and Nancy. And there was this other girl with them. They introduced us. Tim, meet our friend, Liza Bean. She's from Arizona. Years later at a reunion one of the people from that circle would remind me that Liza and I just stared at each other, and that it was a little bit embarrassing for them. Of course they felt that way; yes, we did stare at each other. Oh, my gosh, how beautiful! Elegant. Tall. Classy. Her hair was cut short, like Julie Andrews in "The Sound of Music." But it wasn't just the hair cut or her passing resemblance to the actress. Her mom was born in Virginia Water, Surrey, England; so she was half British. Those green eyes, that English skin, that regal UK bearing, that sense of reserve, that swan-like quality of the truly noble. OMG, my heart was gone in...well, a heartbeat. Now here is the amazing thing. So was hers. Go figure.
Those first few dates we had were quite magical. The late fall orange blossoms that filled the air with romance and nostalgia for my early years living in a grove of Valencias. A truly hokey French Film -- "Les Parapluies de Cherbourg" -- that created a common memory for us, both having lived in France as exchange students. I spoke of my grandfather and of avocados and of sitting on his porch. Dinner at The Huddle in Covina, and Teddy Buckner and his band playing until we were the last ones on the dance floor, and we closed the place.
We were married in 1968 in Scottsdale. Just a small wedding, family and a couple of friends each. Maybe 20 people overall. Everyone invited to the home of my new parents-in-law for dinner. My dad pulled me aside and said, "During the vows I saw you two peaking at each other." Got me, Dad.
It doesn't have to be a big shindig for the marriage to be successful. Since then we have grown in faith, and in love. We have raised three amazing, talented, beautiful, caring daughters. We have gone through the checking-on-them stages; now they check up on us. We have had careers. We have lived in the same house for 35 years. In some ways, an ordinary life. Yet after all these years, forty-three to be exact, forty-three today, she is still crazy about me. Go figure. And after all these years, forty-three to be exact, forty-three today, I am still sneaking a peak every once in a while. Over that time the swan has morphed into a girl scout: loyal, faithful, strong, diligent, helpful, dependable, reliable, and kind. Every merit badge imagineable!
You are many things to many people, all of them worthy and of good report.
You are the one whose name I drew. The Swan, My Swan. Happy Anniversary, Liza.
I am so glad you made it to the game that day.
So what if they drew my name out of the hat?
AT TIMES: Border Collie (I'm in charge here, and you're not gettin' away with anything), Regular Collie (OK, you're in charge here; what can I do for you?), German Shepherd (You are so busted, kid), Dachsund (Actually, I'm the one in charge), Bulldog (Yes, you will), Jack Russell (Lemme at 'em), Bloodhound (The kid can't dodge us forever), St. Bernard (A little something to chase away the chill?), Chesapeake (Can I slobber you a little bit?), Golden Retriever (So, you wanna hang out?), Pit Bull (Try me), Corgi (Wow, what's next?), Sharpay (Yeah, I'm starting the diet tomorrow), Doberman (Not on my watch), Beagle (Where's my dish?), Basset Hound (Where's my doggie bed?), Lab (How long do I have to chase this stupid tennis ball?), Poodle (I'm so smart...), Irish Setter (...and so good-looking).
NEVER: Borzoi (Huh?), Whippet (C'mon), Chihuahua (No way), any smash face dog (Uh Uh), any dog with so much hair that you can't tell the front end from the back end (Sorry), yappy dogs (Seriously)
Of course like all guys I really want to be a lion (Lie around in the shade all day, play with the cubs, make more cubs, roar occasionally, eat the best portions, and she does the shopping.) More likely cat? Smooshie, my neighbor's grey tabby with the long and curious tail (Can't bother, curls up almost anywhere for a nap.)
We met on the last Saturday of October in 1966. By rights we shouldn't have met at all. My original class had graduated the year before in June, but without me. I took some time off; it was a decision mutually agreed upon between the dean of the college and me. Let's just say I wasn't taking full advantage of the educational opportunity before me, more or less majoring in things that didn't involve going to the library. True, there were some understandable distractions. It was during my sophomore and junior years that my dad was diagnosed with and under treatment for his first waves of cancer, and there were many trips from Claremont to Hollywood Presbyterian. So for many reasons, some of them perhaps legit, I was on the six-year plan. Turns out, the timing was perfect.
For on this particular Saturday afternoon I was studying on campus. This time through I did frequent the library; it had books and everything. I took a break to walk down to the stadium where the Pomona College Sagehens were butting helmets with the Occidental Tigers, and showed up at halftime. It was still an Indian summer, but November was close. Shirtsleeves now, but it would cool down later, so all the guys were wearing the uniform of the day, the sweater thrown over the shoulders with the sleeves tied in a knot down front, like a cashmere necktie, loosened.
There I ran into these buddies from my class, Don and John, and they were with their fiances from the current class, Linda and Nancy. And there was this other girl with them. They introduced us. Tim, meet our friend, Liza Bean. She's from Arizona. Years later at a reunion one of the people from that circle would remind me that Liza and I just stared at each other, and that it was a little bit embarrassing for them. Of course they felt that way; yes, we did stare at each other. Oh, my gosh, how beautiful! Elegant. Tall. Classy. Her hair was cut short, like Julie Andrews in "The Sound of Music." But it wasn't just the hair cut or her passing resemblance to the actress. Her mom was born in Virginia Water, Surrey, England; so she was half British. Those green eyes, that English skin, that regal UK bearing, that sense of reserve, that swan-like quality of the truly noble. OMG, my heart was gone in...well, a heartbeat. Now here is the amazing thing. So was hers. Go figure.
Those first few dates we had were quite magical. The late fall orange blossoms that filled the air with romance and nostalgia for my early years living in a grove of Valencias. A truly hokey French Film -- "Les Parapluies de Cherbourg" -- that created a common memory for us, both having lived in France as exchange students. I spoke of my grandfather and of avocados and of sitting on his porch. Dinner at The Huddle in Covina, and Teddy Buckner and his band playing until we were the last ones on the dance floor, and we closed the place.
We were married in 1968 in Scottsdale. Just a small wedding, family and a couple of friends each. Maybe 20 people overall. Everyone invited to the home of my new parents-in-law for dinner. My dad pulled me aside and said, "During the vows I saw you two peaking at each other." Got me, Dad.
It doesn't have to be a big shindig for the marriage to be successful. Since then we have grown in faith, and in love. We have raised three amazing, talented, beautiful, caring daughters. We have gone through the checking-on-them stages; now they check up on us. We have had careers. We have lived in the same house for 35 years. In some ways, an ordinary life. Yet after all these years, forty-three to be exact, forty-three today, she is still crazy about me. Go figure. And after all these years, forty-three to be exact, forty-three today, I am still sneaking a peak every once in a while. Over that time the swan has morphed into a girl scout: loyal, faithful, strong, diligent, helpful, dependable, reliable, and kind. Every merit badge imagineable!
You are many things to many people, all of them worthy and of good report.
You are the one whose name I drew. The Swan, My Swan. Happy Anniversary, Liza.
I am so glad you made it to the game that day.
So what if they drew my name out of the hat?
AT TIMES: Border Collie (I'm in charge here, and you're not gettin' away with anything), Regular Collie (OK, you're in charge here; what can I do for you?), German Shepherd (You are so busted, kid), Dachsund (Actually, I'm the one in charge), Bulldog (Yes, you will), Jack Russell (Lemme at 'em), Bloodhound (The kid can't dodge us forever), St. Bernard (A little something to chase away the chill?), Chesapeake (Can I slobber you a little bit?), Golden Retriever (So, you wanna hang out?), Pit Bull (Try me), Corgi (Wow, what's next?), Sharpay (Yeah, I'm starting the diet tomorrow), Doberman (Not on my watch), Beagle (Where's my dish?), Basset Hound (Where's my doggie bed?), Lab (How long do I have to chase this stupid tennis ball?), Poodle (I'm so smart...), Irish Setter (...and so good-looking).
NEVER: Borzoi (Huh?), Whippet (C'mon), Chihuahua (No way), any smash face dog (Uh Uh), any dog with so much hair that you can't tell the front end from the back end (Sorry), yappy dogs (Seriously)
Of course like all guys I really want to be a lion (Lie around in the shade all day, play with the cubs, make more cubs, roar occasionally, eat the best portions, and she does the shopping.) More likely cat? Smooshie, my neighbor's grey tabby with the long and curious tail (Can't bother, curls up almost anywhere for a nap.)
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Is This Heaven?
Do you remember the film that looked and sounded like a baseball movie but was really about a father and son? In the film the father and son are playing "catch," and afterwards the father stands in this perfect diamond, lighted for night play, wonder in his eyes, and takes a wide-angle view of the outfield fence, cornstalks as high as a batting cage; and he asks the son, "Is This Heaven?" And the son answers, "No, it's Iowa."
It was like heaven at my grandparents' place in northern San Diego County, the avocado capital of the world. Starting six or seven years before his retirement from a long and arduous job with Union Pacific Railroad, they bought three acres on a hilltop, built their own own house, laid the watering lines, planted the avocado trees, fenced the place and joined Calavo, the growers exchange. When he turned 65 they moved into the house, continued to work the grove and settled in as farmers. From the time my parents thought I was old enough to be left there for a weekend or a while, and until I was in college, there were no greater things for me to be than my granddad's golden retriever and assistant picker. I spent nearly 400 nights with them over the years; and the routine never changed, except on Sunday when we three piled into their 1948 Plymouth business coupe and went to church and then "called on" some neighbors for Sunday supper, and then conversation when the women and most of the children gathered in the kitchen, while the men and some of the lucky boys stood in the yard with sweet tea and talked about "cukes" and "off-blooms" and "hasses" and "fuertes" and "cinnamon root rot" and bragged about how many pounds of fruit could be picked off of the "queen" tree in the grove.
All the other days were studies in consistency, hard work, long hours, all about avocados and time with granddad. We started before dawn, fired up the tractor and hitched up the wagon for the boxes of fruit. We opened the whirlybird sprinklers -- there under the trees among the mulch of fallen leaves which crunched underfoot. We looked for broken lines, and if a repair was needed, we had to cut the galvanized pipe (no PVC with easy glue) and put the threading on with a special tool.
After breakfast, we sat for a spell while she in her white naugahyde rocker crocheted or knitted, the latter making a "click-click-click" that more or less kept time with the chair. He in his red rocker stoked up his pipe, always Prince Albert tobacco that came in a flat can. As I write this I can look up and see the pipe stand which he crafted, because now it is in my house. It is a small box on turned legs with copper lining and his ash tray inside. He held the pipe in his left hand and struck a wooden match and put it close over the pipe bowl. With the stem in his mouth he would draw a breath, and the flame would dance and flicker and bend and stoop and draw down into the tobacco, and he packed it with his thumb. This room where we sat was the only place he would light up in the house; it was the day porch which they used to go in and out during working hours, and where I slept and sat across from this tableau of Jim Ned and Leona Johnson "rocking out" so to speak, sharing their morning devotions. (Look for another blog entitled "Mighty Fine," coming soon.)
Back to work! We picked and sorted the avocado crop. We did some pruning. Weeding. Tilling. If anything else needed to be fixed we headed to the shop, where my grandfather also fashioned tools of his trade to pick the high fruit without damage to either the fruit or his back. Wherever we went, he drove the small tractor, and his grandson sat on the back of the trailer, leaning on a crate, legs dangling off, a wide-brimmed hat handed down, eating an avocado right off the limb.
Pure Norman Rockwell. Close to heaven for a kid.
After lunch time, nap time! Jim Ned didn't just "take ten" on the sofa. No sir! He took off his work clothes, put on his pajamas, pulled the shades, got under the covers and did some real deep REM with snores that rattled the windows. 90 minutes. I come by this honestly. You know, it might be considerd more than a mere nap, but don't knock it. He worked that grove until he was 87 years old, and the only reason he didn't work it longer is because he passed out in the DMV and they didn't renew his license. Probably missed his nap that day. So the grove passed unto disuse, and his 16-year old Plymouth with 96,000 miles passed unto me.
But that was later. When he'd get up from his nap he'd dress again, lacing up his button-hook work boots, pulling on his tan pants and tan work shirt, and we'd go back to the grove. If we needed to take a necessary break, the house was off limits with dirty shoes. We used the chicksail, also know as a latrine or outhouse! A little wooden hut with a quarter-moon cut in the door, and -- no kidding -- a Sears catalogue for wiping. There was absolutely nothing charming or sylvan or nostalgic about it; the smell could kill you. Yet my grandfather who was born in Oak Hill, Texas, in "eighteen AND seventy-seven" as he put it, called it his "sanctorum," and he never really got used to indoor plumbing.
After dinner we sat on the west-facing front porch in the Adirondack chairs which he built. We looked over hundreds of acres and thousands of trees, a sea of no-other-green like avocado leaves disappearing into the ocean eight miles away. We sipped lemonade or enjoyed a piece of my favorite dessert, always there on my visits. Lemon Bisque! Just like the pipe stand and the threading tool and the fruit picker and the sweat-stained Stetsons -- his and mine -- the recipe is also mine now; and my children devour this lighter-than-air confection handed down from a great-grandmother they never met. We watched the sun go down into the Pacific, and we turned in early. We had to; otherwise how could we get up at 4:45 to start the next day among the most wonderful of climbing trees?
I have asked myself many times, "Was it heaven?" No, it was Vista, California.
It was like heaven at my grandparents' place in northern San Diego County, the avocado capital of the world. Starting six or seven years before his retirement from a long and arduous job with Union Pacific Railroad, they bought three acres on a hilltop, built their own own house, laid the watering lines, planted the avocado trees, fenced the place and joined Calavo, the growers exchange. When he turned 65 they moved into the house, continued to work the grove and settled in as farmers. From the time my parents thought I was old enough to be left there for a weekend or a while, and until I was in college, there were no greater things for me to be than my granddad's golden retriever and assistant picker. I spent nearly 400 nights with them over the years; and the routine never changed, except on Sunday when we three piled into their 1948 Plymouth business coupe and went to church and then "called on" some neighbors for Sunday supper, and then conversation when the women and most of the children gathered in the kitchen, while the men and some of the lucky boys stood in the yard with sweet tea and talked about "cukes" and "off-blooms" and "hasses" and "fuertes" and "cinnamon root rot" and bragged about how many pounds of fruit could be picked off of the "queen" tree in the grove.
All the other days were studies in consistency, hard work, long hours, all about avocados and time with granddad. We started before dawn, fired up the tractor and hitched up the wagon for the boxes of fruit. We opened the whirlybird sprinklers -- there under the trees among the mulch of fallen leaves which crunched underfoot. We looked for broken lines, and if a repair was needed, we had to cut the galvanized pipe (no PVC with easy glue) and put the threading on with a special tool.
After breakfast, we sat for a spell while she in her white naugahyde rocker crocheted or knitted, the latter making a "click-click-click" that more or less kept time with the chair. He in his red rocker stoked up his pipe, always Prince Albert tobacco that came in a flat can. As I write this I can look up and see the pipe stand which he crafted, because now it is in my house. It is a small box on turned legs with copper lining and his ash tray inside. He held the pipe in his left hand and struck a wooden match and put it close over the pipe bowl. With the stem in his mouth he would draw a breath, and the flame would dance and flicker and bend and stoop and draw down into the tobacco, and he packed it with his thumb. This room where we sat was the only place he would light up in the house; it was the day porch which they used to go in and out during working hours, and where I slept and sat across from this tableau of Jim Ned and Leona Johnson "rocking out" so to speak, sharing their morning devotions. (Look for another blog entitled "Mighty Fine," coming soon.)
Back to work! We picked and sorted the avocado crop. We did some pruning. Weeding. Tilling. If anything else needed to be fixed we headed to the shop, where my grandfather also fashioned tools of his trade to pick the high fruit without damage to either the fruit or his back. Wherever we went, he drove the small tractor, and his grandson sat on the back of the trailer, leaning on a crate, legs dangling off, a wide-brimmed hat handed down, eating an avocado right off the limb.
Pure Norman Rockwell. Close to heaven for a kid.
After lunch time, nap time! Jim Ned didn't just "take ten" on the sofa. No sir! He took off his work clothes, put on his pajamas, pulled the shades, got under the covers and did some real deep REM with snores that rattled the windows. 90 minutes. I come by this honestly. You know, it might be considerd more than a mere nap, but don't knock it. He worked that grove until he was 87 years old, and the only reason he didn't work it longer is because he passed out in the DMV and they didn't renew his license. Probably missed his nap that day. So the grove passed unto disuse, and his 16-year old Plymouth with 96,000 miles passed unto me.
But that was later. When he'd get up from his nap he'd dress again, lacing up his button-hook work boots, pulling on his tan pants and tan work shirt, and we'd go back to the grove. If we needed to take a necessary break, the house was off limits with dirty shoes. We used the chicksail, also know as a latrine or outhouse! A little wooden hut with a quarter-moon cut in the door, and -- no kidding -- a Sears catalogue for wiping. There was absolutely nothing charming or sylvan or nostalgic about it; the smell could kill you. Yet my grandfather who was born in Oak Hill, Texas, in "eighteen AND seventy-seven" as he put it, called it his "sanctorum," and he never really got used to indoor plumbing.
After dinner we sat on the west-facing front porch in the Adirondack chairs which he built. We looked over hundreds of acres and thousands of trees, a sea of no-other-green like avocado leaves disappearing into the ocean eight miles away. We sipped lemonade or enjoyed a piece of my favorite dessert, always there on my visits. Lemon Bisque! Just like the pipe stand and the threading tool and the fruit picker and the sweat-stained Stetsons -- his and mine -- the recipe is also mine now; and my children devour this lighter-than-air confection handed down from a great-grandmother they never met. We watched the sun go down into the Pacific, and we turned in early. We had to; otherwise how could we get up at 4:45 to start the next day among the most wonderful of climbing trees?
I have asked myself many times, "Was it heaven?" No, it was Vista, California.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Entry #1: Welcome
Dear Family and Friends,
The motivation to join the digital age comes from my recent diagnosis with "multiple myeloma" cancer, also known as cancer of the bone marrow. The "multiple" part indicates that it appears in more than one location. So we launch this in order to answer concerns and questions about my treatment; respond to the many expressions of love, support and prayer that have come our way; and to give Liza something of a break from being the constant bearer of news and updates.
There is no good time to have this particular cancer; but there is a better time, and it is now. Now, compared to ten years ago when they would have patted me on the back and sent me straight to palliative care and offered me serious pain killers. The advancements in pharmacological research, the progress in cellular biology, and the ability to see and manipulate ever smaller structures of matter have all led to some astounding drug protocols. Think of the droid or iPhone in your hand. You hold more memory and more computing power that a roomful of computers a generation ago. Similarly, medical technology has gone deeper into the nature of proteins and DNA, studying ever smaller particles and enzymes. So the current generation of "chemo" drugs are able more accurately to pinpoint the B-lymphocytes and other runaway white blood cells and attack them, without as much damage to the patient as was so often the case in the past.
So the good news is that there is great hope for remission of this cancer. Treatments started three weeks ago, and currently they are administering a recipe of four powerful drugs, all taken intravenously. Two are late model "chemo's" which in numerous clinical trials have resulted in greater success rates when used in tandem rather than alone. The third is a steroid which will help healing and strengthen tissue and also attack certain lethal proteins in myeloma cancer. Therefore, I expect to be totally buffed out and capable of hitting my drives over 275 yards. The fourth drug is for bone repair. In time they will add an oral cancer-fighter which my oncologist says, "You will be taking for years to come." No, they do not say "cure" or "healing," but the operant word is "treatable," with great hope for a long and busy life, probably dying from some other bullet.
Also, thanks be to God, there have been so far no sinister side effects. No doubt that is helped by the ingestion of three additional medications taken just for that purpose. The most notable side effect is exhaustion. Fortunately there are naps -- a fine Piatt family tradition. Frankly, I am fortunate to be able to tolerate all these chemicals.
In addition to the medical and physical report, there is the spiritual report; and in that regard it is even better news. More prayer. More Bible. More time with God. To use a social networking metaphor, the Lord and I are BFF's.
There will be additional reports about some poignant and funny things that have come up in treatment. These will be listed under the heading "The Little C." You will also find in the weeks to come some other writings about family, friends, and former students. There will also be a section called "Devotions." You'll see.
Thanks for checking in. Thanks especially to Liza -- prayer buddy, medical advocate, record keeper and cheerleader. Thanks also to many who have written, emailed and called with good wishes.
It says in Philippians that we are to be "anxious for nothing." (Philippians 4:6-7). That is really an astounding promise of Scripture, that we can cast our cares on Him and be free of worry even in tough and painful circumstances. To wit, my most recent BP is 104/66.
Next time! Tim
The motivation to join the digital age comes from my recent diagnosis with "multiple myeloma" cancer, also known as cancer of the bone marrow. The "multiple" part indicates that it appears in more than one location. So we launch this in order to answer concerns and questions about my treatment; respond to the many expressions of love, support and prayer that have come our way; and to give Liza something of a break from being the constant bearer of news and updates.
There is no good time to have this particular cancer; but there is a better time, and it is now. Now, compared to ten years ago when they would have patted me on the back and sent me straight to palliative care and offered me serious pain killers. The advancements in pharmacological research, the progress in cellular biology, and the ability to see and manipulate ever smaller structures of matter have all led to some astounding drug protocols. Think of the droid or iPhone in your hand. You hold more memory and more computing power that a roomful of computers a generation ago. Similarly, medical technology has gone deeper into the nature of proteins and DNA, studying ever smaller particles and enzymes. So the current generation of "chemo" drugs are able more accurately to pinpoint the B-lymphocytes and other runaway white blood cells and attack them, without as much damage to the patient as was so often the case in the past.
So the good news is that there is great hope for remission of this cancer. Treatments started three weeks ago, and currently they are administering a recipe of four powerful drugs, all taken intravenously. Two are late model "chemo's" which in numerous clinical trials have resulted in greater success rates when used in tandem rather than alone. The third is a steroid which will help healing and strengthen tissue and also attack certain lethal proteins in myeloma cancer. Therefore, I expect to be totally buffed out and capable of hitting my drives over 275 yards. The fourth drug is for bone repair. In time they will add an oral cancer-fighter which my oncologist says, "You will be taking for years to come." No, they do not say "cure" or "healing," but the operant word is "treatable," with great hope for a long and busy life, probably dying from some other bullet.
Also, thanks be to God, there have been so far no sinister side effects. No doubt that is helped by the ingestion of three additional medications taken just for that purpose. The most notable side effect is exhaustion. Fortunately there are naps -- a fine Piatt family tradition. Frankly, I am fortunate to be able to tolerate all these chemicals.
In addition to the medical and physical report, there is the spiritual report; and in that regard it is even better news. More prayer. More Bible. More time with God. To use a social networking metaphor, the Lord and I are BFF's.
There will be additional reports about some poignant and funny things that have come up in treatment. These will be listed under the heading "The Little C." You will also find in the weeks to come some other writings about family, friends, and former students. There will also be a section called "Devotions." You'll see.
Thanks for checking in. Thanks especially to Liza -- prayer buddy, medical advocate, record keeper and cheerleader. Thanks also to many who have written, emailed and called with good wishes.
It says in Philippians that we are to be "anxious for nothing." (Philippians 4:6-7). That is really an astounding promise of Scripture, that we can cast our cares on Him and be free of worry even in tough and painful circumstances. To wit, my most recent BP is 104/66.
Next time! Tim
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| Liza and Tim at Annie's wedding, Boulder, Colorado, June 2011 |
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