The Look of Love - Mark Morris Dance Group

 (...in which Hank gives his pedestrian views on The Look of Love - Mark Morris Dance Group performance in Dallas last month at The Winspear as a respite from Yet Another Burrito Missive as a sort of palate cleanser,  because why not):

For many of us late Boomer/Early Gen X’ers, our first exposure to Burt Bacharach, other than hearing his music as the soundtrack in dentist offices and bank lobbies and Dionne Warwick belting out a few numbers from your father’s Dodge Dart’s AM radio while on the way to baseball practice, was a commercial that was everywhere on TV in the early 70s: A sultry Angie Dickinson extolling the virtues of Martin & Rossi at some Malibu club, while sauntering over to a piano where we find Burt, toying at the keyboard. They were married at the time, and let’s just say there was a palpable energy between the two that even this ten-year-old boy couldn’t miss. 

“What do you say to Martini & Rossi?” Angie asks him.

“Yes,” Burt replies, and then starts to sing a melody that is pure Bacharach, “Yes… to Martin & Rossi on the rocks… say ye eh essssss.”

End scene.

The music of Burt Bacharach (and lyrics by Hal David) evidently made a big impact on many of this generation. Choreographer Mark Morris, born in 1956, founded the Mark Morris Dance Group in 1980 and has produced numerous works throughout the years as its artistic director. His most recent production is “The Look of Love,” an homage to the powerful melodies and arrangements of Bacharach, with his choreography, along with arrangements by Ethan Iverson and costume and production designs by Isaac Mizrahi. It recently stopped at the Winspear at the AT&T Performing Arts Center thanks to TITAS/Dallas Unbound and executive and artistic director Charles Santos.  

One of the special things about this production is that it features live music rather than something prerecorded, and it makes a difference, bringing a sense of energy and excitement that one just doesn’t get listening to files playing off a hard drive. The mood was set at the lights still hadn’t fully dimmed when a few soft bars of “Alfie” could be heard coming from the piano of Chris McCarthy. It was soft and melancholy, but picked up a bit more energy as the lights fully dimmed and we transitioned to “What the World Needs Now,” sung with passion by lead vocalist Marcy Harriell and backup singers Clinton Curtis and Blaire Reinhard.

The dancers started entering the stage at that point, which was unadorned and simply lit. The dancers totaled about 10 in number, and would weave in and out, Mizrahi’s costumes in different muted pastel tones of light green, burnt orange, yellow magenta and lavender which somehow managed to capture the feeling of the mod 1960s while still remaining modern. 

That song yielded to “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again,” and the choreography here at times was literal, with sneezes incorporated into the movements. The lyrics here are typical of Hal David’s somewhat bittersweet yet unsentimental lyrics, and the dancers embraced this in physical form.

After “A Message to Michael,” the lighting became a bit more ominous, and a unique arrangement of “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head” began, and then we segued into “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” and “Anyone Who Had a Heart.”

Next up was “Walk On By,” which really showed off Jonathan Finlayson’s trumpet as well served as an interesting choreography choice by Morris. With syncopated rhythm and pace, all the dancers again embodied a literal interpretation of the lyrics by walking on by each other, weaving in and out, making quick sharp turns before traveling across the rest of the stage. It was reminiscent of a college marching band, always in movement, marching along to the music and obviously took a lot of skill and timing.

One of our guilty movie pleasures is the 1958 version of “The Blob” starring a young Steve McQueen, and featuring one of the best 50s-era opening credit songs, which it turns out was written by Bacharach, but this time with lyrics by Hal’s brother, Mack. It’s upbeat campy fun, and when we saw it listed on the program we were excited.

However, when the lights turned dark red and the dancers stood posed only in an ominous silhouette, we knew that Iverson had decided to change this up a bit. Instead of upbeat and perky, it was slow and dark, more in keeping with the theme of the Sci Fi movie, sure, but a bit of a disappointment none the less, even though it was expertly presented.

We all needed an emotional pick me up after that, and the production finished strongly with “Always Something There to Remind Me” and “The Look of Love,” before concluding with “I Say a Little Prayer.”

Sure, there’s a whole generation that thinks of “Always Something” as that Naked Eyes song that was in heavy rotation back when MTV played music videos, but it fits in perfectly with the Bacharach/David oeuvre. “I Say a Little Prayer” was a perfect ending as well letting Vinnie Sperrazza’s drums and Simon Willson’s bass shine as well as allowing Morris’ choreography to sparkle through the interpretation of his dance troop. 

We were excited to see a composer’s work being set to innovative dance. Illinoise, featuring the music of Sufjan Stevens and choreography of Justin Peck, was a revelation, but it’s great to see the straight-up pop sensibilities of Bacharach also being embraced by the Mark Morris Dance Group.  And who knows: maybe soon we’ll all be talking about that ballet based on The Ramones music.

Things That Should Be Taught In School

This is something that should be taught in school, along with the quadratic equation, how to diagram  a sentence, and the evils of supply-side economics:

If you're the first car at a red light, whether it be in a left turn lane or going straight, it is your job to be alert, to watch the light like a hawk, to give it  your full and undivided attention with as least as much fervor as when you stare at that waitress to see if she's finally bringing you your spinach artichoke dip.

You are not to play on your phone. Or fix your eyeliner. Or shave. Or get in an animated conversation with a passenger. Or face the back seat threatening to turn the car around if your kids don't settle down.

No. 

Your ONE JOB is to watch that light, and when it turns GREEN to GO. You can take half a second to make sure no one's running the light, but that's it.

Your email can wait. You get the luxury of of downvoting a Reddit comment only if you're several cars down the line.

Okay? Good.

Flows The River

 I drove across the Mighty Mississippi this past week a couple of times for what must be the 500th time. No place to stop for a pic and I was alone, so the pictures are terrible, but what can you do.

I've crossed it several places over the years: a handful of times in St Cloud, MN, a few traverses at Dubuque, IA / Galena, IL, scores of times at St Louis, dozens at Memphis, a couple of times at Baton Rouge, LA and in New Orleans.

It still, somehow, never gets old, and I always think about the great volume of water that has made the almost 2500 mile journey from Lake Itasca in Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico in Louisiana and all the people that have seen that water pass them by over thousands of years. 

A river is an apt metaphor for time, always flowing forward, always moving, yet with a path and direction that we sometime fight to overcome or redirect. Cultures, cities, and peoples come and go, streaming through the relentless flow of time, with occasional eddies that may form along the way but which eventually dissipate, giving way, finally, to the flow that is unstoppable before all becomes one again in the vastness of the ocean. It can be at once comforting and terrifying. 

As I crossed this last time from Illinois to Iowa I thought of my great Aunt Elaine, my grandmother’s sister who lives in a house her family built on the banks of the Mississippi near St. Cloud in Minnesota. Both my parents were only children, and thus I have no cousins, aunts, or uncles proper. My grandmother and I were really close, and she loved her sister, my great Aunt. 

They were different in many ways: Elaine more gregarious, gram more withdrawn and quieter. But still I saw aspects of both in each, and to a certain extent my gram still lives on for me via Aunt Elaine, and there she sits in her A-frame house on the very river I’m crossing now, again. 

She will be celebrating her 100th birthday next month and we’re excited to be able to see her to celebrate a life well-lived, a life that has seen a century of the Mighty Mississippi pass her by, the river just chugging along, hour after hour, day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year. The river endures, and so does she.

 Old Man Baseball Rant

So we went to the Cubs/Rangers game Sunday, the third and final game in the series that was the opener of the 2024 season.

This was our first visit to the Rangers' new ballpark, Globe Life Field or some such. It is the third, mind you, stadium that the Rangers have called home and that I've attended since I've lived here which is kind of ridiculous if you think about it. Stadiums in some cities are becoming disposable playthings for owners probably because they make the city residents pay for it and they have less skin in the game, but that's a rant for another time.

No, what I'm here to complain about is the scoreboard situation in Globe Life Park (or Field? Can't keep it straight.)

There is no permanent scoreboard at *all*.

Now, I'm not expecting a huge thing like in Wrigley where each and every game is updated (by hand). That's not necessary. Nice, but not necessary.

However, some things should always be visible 100% of the time you're at the park.

Such things as the inning, the time, the ball/strike count, at a *minimum* should always be there to see. Now, Globe Life Field (GLF from hereon) has a plethora of "scoreboards": two huge screens in landscape mode in the outfield, a largish screen in thin portrait mode near center, a ring of data that can be lit up that circumnavigates the entire circumference of the field betwixt levels, etc.

They're bright, they're flashy, they have cutting edge graphics that allow you to watch the dot race around the fifth or six inning brought to you by Chick-fil-A (or maybe that's Golden Chick, who can keep up.)

The smiling faces of players still full of optimism and hope at season's beginning along with stats like OPS and moon phases are prominently displayed every minute or so, but if you just want to know what time it is, good luck. No clock anywhere.

If you're between innings and try to determine exactly WHAT inning you're between, you're out of luck. You know how it is... around the fifth or sixth inning one begins to lose track what with the leisurely pace of the game. Can I just look at some scoreboard to figure out if I really need to get some more nachos, or if indeed I have time?

Nope. Unless the Scoreboard Keeper decides to put that graphic up, you will have no idea. You're at their mercy. Instead, while sitting waiting between the fourth (or is this the fifth?) inning, you'll have to watch a Remax commercial or Golden Chick (I'm sure it's Golden Chick.)

And when the game finally gets going again, and they put the box score up on the Big Board for a fleeting second and you see that actually it's only the THIRD inning, and you see Cody Bellinger is at bat again, and if you begin to wonder what he's done so far this game bat-wise: TOUGH.

Instead you'll see what he hit against lefties on the road in 2023, and that for the season he's batting a measly .125 but the season is still young and so maybe that $80 million wasn't a waste let's try to be patient for just a minute, but what did he do last at bat? Who knows.

It took me 7 innings to find where the GD pitch count was for crissakes.

Say what you will about the old Arlington stadium: Sure, you might get second degree burns on your thighs from the aluminum bench seating in the outfield and suffer minor heat stroke, but at least you GD knew what time it was.

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Snorey, Sours, And Two F***ing Hands: A Dining Adventure

We decided to try a pizza and pasta place last night whose menu seemed good. They originally had three locations in the area, but apparently the one in Plano was the last one standing. Upon arrival we were told to seat ourselves after waiting a bit in confusion in the entryway.

We found a booth, and then found some menus and sat down. There were several cocktails that cost under $10, and while that’s great for the budget-conscious, it’s usually not a great sign as to their quality. Still. It was something.

After a bit the waiter approached the booth behind us, as evidently they’d been waiting since before we even seated ourselves. Oh well, perhaps they’re just short-staffed. While we waited, we had decided on a couple of different appetizers, some bargain-basement cocktails, and a couple of pasta dishes. We were ready. We were also listening in on his conversation with the people behind us.

“You see anything you like? Well, enjoy it now, because we’ve been sold to another company starting tomorrow,” which was followed by nervous and confused laughter by the other party.

Finally, it was our turn. He approached our table and it began.

“Are there any entrees you’d like me to get you started with?”

Me, kind of confused: “Do you mean appetizers? Because we’d like to start with those, first.”

“Well, sure, if that’s what you want. I was just trying to be efficient.”

“That’s appreciated, but I just wanted to make sure appetizers are still available,” I countered.

He sighed, making no effort to conceal it then removed the hipster cowboy hat he had been wearing and slowly pointed to his head.

“Look, as you can see, I’m a blond and have some blond moments occasionally,” he said as he gestured at his brown hair matted by his insistence of wearing a cowboy hat at a pizza parlor.

It was our turn to express nervous and confused laughter as he replaced the hat upon his head with a smug look of satisfaction at his “witticism.”

He started to walk away having taken neither a drink or appetizer order.

“Can we order some drinks now?” we asked with building trepidation. “We’d like a frozen Aperol spritz and a figgy mule.”

“Oh, we don’t have the frozen spritz. We’ve been sold, you know, as of tomorrow.”

“Well, do you have any frozen drinks at all?”

“We have a frozen margarita,” he beamed, “and the upside is that it’s really strong. In fact, if I can be totally honest with you, it’s fucking strong.”

It’s not often that a waiter will drop the F-bomb so cavalierly, so we were a bit silenced by shock, but then finally forced out a nervous and confused titter. It was all we could muster.

We decided against the fucking strong margarita and instead settled upon an amaretto sour.

“Oh, that doesn’t have any liquor in it,” he informed us.

“No liquor at all?”

“Nope.”

“So it’s a virgin amaretto sour?” we asked for clarification. “Isn’t amaretto alcohol?”

“Oh sure, amaretto has alcohol, but it’s what we call a liqueur. It’s not liquor though.”

Confused nervous laughter. “Um… that’s okay. That’s fine.”

“Okay,” he replied. “I just wanted to make you aware, since I had someone complain when they ordered one the other day saying ‘this does not have alcohol in it!!’ and I had to explain to him about it.”

“Sure, but to be clear, a liqueur does have alcohol in it, so….”

He started to take his hat off again but thought better of it and left.

As we waited for our drinks to arrive, we began to reassess if we should actually order anything else. We were getting a bad vibe. The other booth adjacent to us held a gaggle of women seemingly having a good time talking about their day. The waiter approached them, and they became hushed.

“Okay, sorry, but what were your drink orders again?” he asked them. After a bit of nervous and confused laughter from the gals they told him “Three waters and a Dr Pepper.” He told them he’d go get them and reminded them that this place had been sold and was changing names starting tomorrow, because why not.

It took about five minutes, but he returned with three waters and nothing else. He asked if there was anything else, and they reminded him about the Dr Pepper at which point he said, “Yeah, sure, but I only have two hands.” More tittering as he fetched the Dr Pepper, but en route decided to go to the back of the dining area and enter the bathroom.

“He’s going to the bathroom first?” one of the women asked incredulously. I wanted to remind them about his hair color situation but thought better of it.

During all of this we decided we definitely were not going to order anything else; we’d finish our drinks and leave. While he was in the bathroom, however, we contemplated just leaving right then since we hadn’t received our drinks, anyway. A philosophical conversation then ensued as to exactly how one defines “dining and dashing”: If you never eat or drink your order and you leave, does it count as dining and dashing? We decided to err on the side of caution and morality.

Finally, our drinks arrived. Or drink. He only had the figgy mule, not the liquor-challenged amaretto sour.

“Anything else now?” he asked after placing the mule on the table.

“Well… what about the amaretto sour?” I asked gingerly.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s coming,” he replied with impatience he didn’t bother to hide. “I only have two hands, you know.” 

So we’ve heard, dude.

While we waited for the other cocktail, we got to listen in on another conversation he had with the booth full of nervously laughing women. He was not bringing food or drinks, mind you, but just went over to them to tell a story about when he worked at a restaurant across the street and was dating one of the other servers whose father evidently did not approve of the relationship (what a shocker). His story was long and detailed with the occasional F-bomb sprinkled throughout, using his name, the girlfriend’s name, the manager’s name and the father’s name to explain how the father dropped by to confront him at the restaurant and who he won over with wit and grace (he must have had more than two hands then) and was invited to drop by and swim at the family pool (“…which was just two fucking blocks from the restaurant”) whenever he wanted. It was gripping; we were on the edge of our seats.

The women left after that, having only ordered some water and a Dr Pepper. I envied them as they walked out.

Finally, the other cocktail arrived, he asked if there was anything else, and we said we’d just like the check. He brought it and we gave him our credit card, but just as he started to walk away, he stopped and turned back.

“Hey, I want to ask you a question.” (Here we go, we were thinking.) “I read a study recently that said that most people cannot name all seven of Snow White’s dwarfs.”

We sort of shrugged with a “what are you going to do” kind of attitude, hoping he’d get to the point or just go run our card, but no.

“How many of them can you name?” he insisted.

“Oh, probably just one,” I replied peevishly. I don’t know what I was thinking. Cindy, on the other hand, started to name a few. “There’s Doc, and Bashful….”

“DOC!” the waiter exclaimed. “Most people don’t remember Doc!”

“Sleepy, Happy…. Is there a Happy?” Cindy continued.

“Yeah, there’s a Happy. And everyone says Doc,” he countered, evidently unaware that he was contradicting what he had just said about Doc.

Please just take our check and run our card so we can go, I was thinking as loudly as I could.

“It’s sort of a psychological experiment I’m running, asking people to name the seven dwarfs. Yeah, sure, everyone knows Doc and Snorey, but that’s usually about it” he said before finally leaving to run our card.

SNOREY? Really? He thinks there’s a dwarf named Snorey? Clearly there was more going on with this dude than simply lack of pigmentation to his hair.

We still left a 20% tip, however. Snorey would have wanted it that way.

Oh, and apropos of nothing, the last remaining Sfereco in the area will be under new ownership starting tomorrow.

Check This Out

I loaded up the groceries onto the conveyor belt today at Kroger after first laying down the dividing bar to separate my stuff from the items of the person in front of me who was currently being rung up, an older lady who reminded me a bit of my grandmother, who was busy chatting with the woman in front of *her* who had just finished checking out. Evidently they lived in the same retirement facility. Suddenly she noticed some pretzel rods in my pile of items on the belt and said, "Oh, pretzels! I wish I'd thought to get some" in a Midwest accent that reeked of Minnesota, but again it might have been memories of my grandmother flowing over. "You want mine?" I asked. "Oh, no.... no. Thank you though." "Okay" "Well... do you really not want them?" she countered. I mean, obviously I want them, that's why I pushed them around the grocery store in my cart for 30 minutes before loading them onto the conveyor belt, but what are you going to do when faced with gramma-polite-strong-arming? "No, I can get some more later," I said as I moved the pretzels from my side of the dividing bar to her side. As she exited the store she looked back at me one more time and said "you're so sweet" and poof she was gone. With my pretzels. I'd like to think that maybe once someone gave my grandmother their pretzels; it helps ease the pain while sitting here having to snack on stale corn chips.

In Which Hank "Reviews" Daniel Fish's Oklahoma! presented by Broadway Dallas

Let me begin by saying that Oklahoma! is one of my least favorite R&H musicals, beating out perhaps only State Fair for that distinction. I don’t like Westerns or things set in the “West”, I don’t like farmers, I don’t like cowhands (I’m friends with neither 😉), I don’t like hick accents, the “thar”s or “fir”s or “agin” or poorly conjugated verbs. There are some great songs, don’t get me wrong; I mean, it’s my least favorite, but I still like it. Now, this cuts both ways: Since I’m not in love with Oklahoma! to begin with, I’m less emotionally invested in how it’s produced and in fact might welcome any interpretation or reimagining that would shake up all these dern territory folk and make them a bit more interesting, iffin’ you see ma point. (Ugh. See? Hick talk sucks). I totally respect and can appreciate trying to update an old moldy musical, making it fresh and relatable to current tastes and styles, even if I might wish to see an unaltered  version from the 50s.

However, and perhaps more importantly, I’m just done in general with the sparse stylized single static set designs and lack of full orchestra that has been predominant these last several years of musical theater, so of course this didn’t thrill me, though I’ve come to accept that this is how things are now. I just assumed that there would be no real set to speak of in this version, and I was right. Again, this bothered me, but it is not unique to Daniel Fish’s current production of Oklahoma.

I’m just old fashioned. I like curtains. I like changing backdrops. I like little scenes front of curtain while a new scene/set is being put in place behind the curtain. If the scene takes place in a school room, I want to see desks and a blackboard. It if then changes to outside in a park near a gazebo, I want a gazebo and I want trees. I know, I know, how literal of me. But I’m old. I want to see a play, not what looks like the cast sitting around a table workshopping it, working on their delivery. Those days are gone, however. I’m not bitter.

Moving to the music (they’re called musicals, you know), I like more than one viola. I like hearing an oboe. Some timpani. Seeing the soft glow from an actual orchestra pit. I no longer find it “cool” or “edgy” to see the musicians on stage. Put ‘em in the pit where they belong. I can’t remember the last time we saw a musical where the “orchestra” was not on stage (or under the stage, waves at The Sound of Music and Miguel Cantu IV). Tommy, Jesus Christ Super Star, In The Heights, Rocky Horror, Rent, West Side Story, Oklahoma.

Distorted electric guitar is fine in Rent, or JCST, or Tommy, but not Carousel or Brigadoon.

So, all of these things are my Angry Old Man issues with most current productions of musicals and are not specific to this version of Oklahoma. Given that I expected all of this going in, I perhaps was not as bothered as some with the staging and direction of this production. I’m resigned to having to watch “not your grandma’s musical” and have that built in already. However, this needs to be executed well, and unfortunately, this was not the case.

I enjoy on-key singing. I guess I’m funny that way. Almost without exception the entire cast of this production was a bit pitchy as Randy Jackson used to say, and even when they hit the right notes, sometimes the delivery was questionable, as was the case with Sean Grandillo’s almost falsetto singing at times. During “People Will Say We’re In Love” it was often hard at times to determine who was singing, because Curly and Sasha Hutchings’  Laurey were basically singing in the same range. Not a fan. To me, this was the production’s biggest failure, its lack of a strong vocal ensemble.

There was also the anachronistic stylizing that has also become de rigueur as of late: The cast would sing in the traditional manner, then suddenly grab a wired mic and sing into that. The change in volume and dynamics was jarring, and even if this was the point, it just removed some of the inherent charm of these songs and also jerked you out of the moment, calling attention to the artificiality of the whole situation. Add to this the also now ubiquitous use of a live video feed projected onto the backdrop. All cool, and artsy, but again, overly artificial, and I almost always get pulled out of the moment and start watching the camera man in such situations, and wonder how they walk in the dark, or what kind of night vision lens they are using. Should I look at the screen, or the actor on stage? Did they even have wireless hidef video in turn of the century Oklahoma Territory? This worked when we saw Network on stage, as the whole point of that show was how media and technology effects and influences our lives, but in the grass prairies of 1906 Oklahoma it seems to be just a stunt.

Now, the ending, the wedding scene. I didn’t really have a problem with that. As it started to come to an end, Cindy said (in what seemed full room volume for everyone to hear), “this is EFFED UP.” (and yes she said “EFF” because she’s demure that way 😉). I mean, plot-wise, it really doesn’t differ from the traditional production, it was just more graphic. This part reminded me of The Bride from Kill Bill, in a good way. Who doesn’t want to hear a rousing reprise of the title song sung whilst drenched in blood from the person that your newly betrothed husband just shot to death in cold blood? And they sang that final reprise with a lot of anger and aggression, while Laurey stared out vacantly.

Cut to black.

So there you go.

Oh, and the "ballet." That could be an entire post on its own, so I'll spare you.

DETERMINERS

I have a beef about comic books, or comic book movies, or maybe both, and it's not that old chestnut that why is every movie now about comic book characters. No, I'm resigned to that. Maybe My grandchildren's children will be able to see non-super hero movies again one day, but not in my lifetime.

No, I'm bothered by the misuse and nonuse of determiners.

When did Joker lose the "the"? As in "THE Joker." That's the joker I know, THE Joker. Now, evidently, he's just Joker. And I'm supposed to just shrug and say that's okay and move on?

And the "the" didn't get lost, it seems to have migrated to Batman, who's preferred name is now "THE Batman." Why does he get the the, but the Joker loses the the? Why the willy-nilly use of the the as if it doesn't matter? IT DOES.

What's next, The Mr. Freeze? The Alfred? (which actually sounds like a character in The Handmaid's Tale, but let's not get sidetracked).

Riddler?! (turns out he *is* just Riddler now. Dammit). Is The Penguin still The Penguin or is he just Penguin now?

Why are they doing this to me?

12:00

My grandmother’s birthday is today. It would have been her 97th. After hitting the ninety-six previous birthdays in a row without fail, she’ll miss this one, and I’ll miss her, as I miss my grandfather who left eight years ago. That was hard and took me a long time to move past, to the degree that I’ve even moved past it yet. I wonder how long it will take this time. 

I’d seen her about a week before when I went over to her place to give her a backup power supply for her Bose radio. Every time the power even flickered for a moment at her retirement home, the clock on the Bose would reset, flashing 12:00am. Every time I visited her I’d have to reset it, and sometimes she’d even call when the flashing began to get to her before I noticed it for myself. Sometimes the power would go out for a second the day after I’d reset the clock, and she’d not want to bother me about it so soon. But the next time I was over…. There is was. The flashing clock.

So, finally, after over ten years of this battle with the digital radio clock, I purchased the backup power supply so this would never happen again. It was a Friday, I arrived around lunchtime, and saw she was eating lunch at her table with the three other “elder statesmen” of the retirement home. In this group my grandmother wasn’t the oldest member. She wasn’t even the second oldest. There was, as my grandmother referred to her, “a little old lady” who was 101, and there was another who was 97. My grandmother was a “young kid” at 96, and the last of the group was 91 or something. A mere baby. 

I pulled up a chair and tried to describe to my grandmother what I’d brought, but told her it would be easier to just show her than explain yet another piece of technology that she really didn’t need to worry about, so we walked up to her room and I plugged it in. I explained that the time on the radio would always be correct, now, that she wouldn’t have to rely on me to reset the clock every other day due to the poor wiring in the retirement home. She was happy, but wasn’t sure if she needed to do anything, to reset anything, to flick any switches herself. I assured her she didn’t have to do a thing, that the time would be correct from now on.  As I left I gave her a hug and kissed the top of her head and told her I loved her. (I lucked out there).

However, as bad luck would have it, the Sunday a week later  was the end of Daylight Savings time, so that morning her clock was now off by an hour. I hadn’t thought of this, I had forgotten to mention that twice a year the clock would still have to be changed. She called me the next Monday and left a message on my answering machine. “Hank, the time changed this Sunday, so that clock is off an hour. Could you come by and fix it for me?”

We don’t get a lot of calls to our land line. In fact, my grandmother usually called on my cell. But this time, she called the land line and left a message. A message that I did not see until two days later, when I rushed home from work after getting the news that she had died.

 

The message still sits there on the machine, her last communication with me, about a clock that I took ten years to fix, only to have it finally keep the correct time for just the final week of her life. It’s as if that clock knew something the rest of us didn’t, counting down the years, hours, minutes, and seconds of a life well-lived, but finite none the less. So yes, it’s going to take a long time for the pain of her not being here to pass (or at least subside), and I hope I it’s a very long time before I see another flashing digital clock.

Four years later

Four years later and a week doesn’t pass by without me thinking, for a fleeting second, “I need to tell my grandpa this.” Then, of course, reality sets in and I get angry. Angry that four years have passed and the hurt still remains at the realization that he’s not here, and at the thought that soon, one day, it will be twenty years. 

I was led to believe, or at least hoped, that this would go away with time, but something will still come up that will remind me of him, and for a brief second I’ll forget that he’s no longer here. 

Something as simple as a mosquito bite will remind me of how he’d daub calamine lotion all over his arms and legs after being bitten at the lake, oblivious to how ridiculous he looked with all these bright wet spots covering his body like some sort of flesh-toned leopard. 

Or I’ll find myself whistling and remember how he could carry a tune in that manner like a songbird in search of a mate. He had a great memory for names and people, and occasionally I’ll be wondering about something or someone from our days in Oak Park and I’ll think, for a nanosecond, “I’ll have to ask grandpa if he remembers,” only for me to remember that this is no longer possible, and I get angry. 

I miss him, yet the rest of the world keeps going forward like nothing is wrong. I know intellectually this is how things are, but it doesn’t stop me from spewing a string of profanities in my mind at my perceived unfairness of “how things are.” 

And it makes me think of my own future and my own death, and how we come and go in a blink of time’s eye, the world moving on like a steamroller on steroids, leaving a trail in its wake that over time fades until nothing remains. 

My grandfather, at least, touched and impacted many people. His force still leaves tendrils going forward that are intertwined with others to such an extent that, again, I sometimes forget he’s not here anymore. If someone like him will someday be forgotten, his impact lost over the passing years, what hope is there for someone like me who has basically done nothing with his life compared to him? 

I know some will be irked with me saying that and remind me that this is not true, that you can’t judge a life by accomplishments, and for the most part I agree. I just expected more, having him as a role model, and while, yes, some things that steered the direction of my life were beyond my control, others were my own doing, or more precisely, my own not-doing. 

I hate even expressing such feelings openly, because it smacks of feeling sorry for oneself, even though this is not the case; I know my life is so much better than most (First-World Problems and all that… ;-) And you know what? My grandfather was good at discussing such things with me, and he was able to make me feel better. 

That was one of his roles, being the anchor of the family. I feel like I must take on that roll for my family, for my daughter and her son, but worry that there will be no way I’ll be able to succeed in this as my grandfather did, and think to myself, for the second time this week, “I’ll have to ask him about this.” 

And we’ve come full circle.