But then things happen.
I have no model for the doting grandparent archetype. My grandmother didn't dote; she made me wash the dishes, dig up her garden, mow the yard, and row her around Lake Estes at six in the morning while she trolled for trout. I never had the experience of piling into the car for a trip to grandmother's. Gram was just another looming fact of life, always there, impossible to ignore. There was never a time when we didn't have at least three generations living at home. More often than not, we had four. There were two times I can remember when five generations got together. Both were documented by front page photos in the "Estes Park Trail."
All of that informs much of the attitude I bring to my own grandparenting. I always thought there was something phony or over-the-top about grandparental fawning, the eagerness to hold the little one, the faces, the misty eyes, the offers to take care of the kid at the slightest provocation, the photos perpetually at the ready for flashing in the faces of unsuspecting friends and acquaintances. My grandmother never did anything like that. She just kept busy manning the kitchen, setting another place at the table, greasing the rails of her burgeoning clan. But, no, she never would have volunteered to watch the kids and she certainly wouldn't have been happy about the opportunity. Or sad either. Watching kids was no privilege; it was her life.
Gram was always just Gram. She was funny. She would drop everything to play gin rummy. She would take out her teeth and make weird faces for the kids in the neighborhood. I cried for days when she died. But I don't ever remember her making a big deal out of me or any of her other grandchildren.
I always thought I would be that kind of grandparent. I've always been able to put on a good gruff act. I remember a great day where I got Sage to help me paint the benches and the picnic table and I have to admit that many of my instructions might have been a little peremptory. But afterwards we sat on the font lawn and I taught him how to say "hubba, hubba" whenever a girl walked by. In fact we had three generations in the house for a time when Michelle and Sage lived with us while Chris was on tour. I'm sure I was plenty gruff when trying to get Sage to eat something, anything!
I need to point out here that I don't much like children, especially babies. I don't even think they're particularly cute. So it is difficult from the get-go for me to warm up to the whole grandfatherly thing. I know that sounds terrible, but my sisters had eleven children between them and I was the main baby sitter for all of them. Sure, I got paid handsomely, but the whole scene got old after awhile. And then, of course, I had my own kids and all that entails. I still have my hands full worrying about them without getting all wrapped up in some neonate I don't even know.
But then things happen.
Like the look on Brooklyn and Sammi's faces after a dance recital one evening when all they wanted was to be loved and for everyone to be proud. They were and we are. Or the time at the kitchen table I told Brooklyn to stop acting like such a brat and she stood up in an outraged huff and stormed into the living room and sat down on the couch with arms crossed. She lasted a few minutes before she came back. She looked across the table at me and made a face; I made one right back at her. Her tears went away and her glorious face erupted in a smile. I think I might have cried.
When kayaking with either Sammi or Brooklyn we sing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." Since their parents have done such a nice job grooming them to be pop divas, when we get to the last line, the girls belt out "gently down the STREEEAAAM" in a big finish that can be heard all the way to shore.
When Franny gave birth to Jaydee, our sixth grandchild, we went to her house to wait for Willa to wake up while Ken and Franny drove down to St. Joseph's. Willa started stirring about an hour later and as we were going up to get her I was a little worried that seeing us instead of her parents first thing in the morning might throw her for a loop. I was wrong and she stood up in her crib with the same huge smile that has become her default expression. That moment was almost as wonderful as seeing Jaydee for the first time later that day.
We kept Willa overnight and the next day took her to lunch on the way to the hospital. We were in a booth and Willa, whose remarkably stable life had just been turned upside down, was facing the corner of the booth, presumably wondering what her parents were up to, saying earnestly into the leather cushions, "I miss you. I miss you." It was a phrase she had recently started using, but it was a little heartbreaking nonetheless.
We took Willa to the art museum a couple of days ago because Franny, busy figuring out how to take care of two kids in diapers, wanted Willa to go somewhere and do something more stimulating than television and watching Mommy nurse her little sister. We didn't get past the Nick Cave interactive exhibit on the second floor. Willa happily started placing felt shapes on the yellow walls and life-sized puppets and made sure to point out the video on the far wall to everyone who walked by.
I hope there were days when my grandmother felt as much joy.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
Swim Suit Questing
This is Katherine today. I'm pretty sure the content will make that evident soon, but in the handful of readers we have there might be somebody who might think Jim has been searching through the wilderness for swim suits.
We are headed to warm climates soon and my sit-by-the-pool-and-get-a-tan-while-sipping-on-margaritas wardrobe had died in Mexico in May of 2012. The three identical suits suits died after four years of serious service in Mexico and Belize.
I have some really strong memories that have survived the trash bag burial of the suits. I once spent a day alone at the Camelback Spa in Scottsdale and while I sat by the pool, a table of folks talked about how wonderful Starkey Productions had been for his business event. Makes a mom proud.
I was hanging out at the infinity pool at Chaa Creek, my favorite resort in Belize, and I was having my very first caipirinha (a great drink) and reading a book about book restoration that took place in Florence, Italy. We were there with Bud and Janet and between the four of us we can strike up a conversation with almost anyone. We had a wonderful moment with the Chaa Creek owner and learned the history of the resort (it started with his wife selling homemade yogurt in the nearby village) and ended with him giving us a personal tour of his organic garden that fed the guests. We missed the Belizian zoo to tour his garden. It was a magnificent morning.
I made friends with the pirate salesman who roamed around the resort pool in Puerto Vallarta. He sold pirate bandanas that kept Jim from burning his scalp that trip (I think I bought four of them). He wore me down and Janet and I finally agreed to go on the Pirate dinner cruise and show. I still like the pirate bandanas. The pirate cruise and show--not so good.
There are more memories, but that's not where this was supposed to go.
The three dead suits were originally very hard to find. I've had a mastectomy and I lift weights. I have a broad back on no front and I don't wear replacements (plastic surgery was not an option for me). Swimsuits and sweaters are tough.
After a month or so of serious swim suit shopping, I found a hot pink Juicy Brand strapless one piece that looked liked a long top over a bikini bottom. It covered my scars. It was hot pink--that awful Juicy pink and I'm too old for that and for whatever reason I'm not wild about pink since my cancer experiences. I don't want to define myself by cancer.
The clerk at Nordstrom told me the suit originally came in grey and turquoise (excellent choices), but they were long gone across the country. She was right. I tried every store the internet had as well. That's when I learned about eBay. It took several months, but I ended up with three of the suits in the right colors and for much better prices than the pink one I began to feel badly about leaving behind.
Since the death of the Juicy suits, I haven't needed one (NYC in April and Wyoming were not pool/ocean destinations). NYC focused me though. I was walking through Bloomingdale's while we were looking for a winter hat for Jim because it was pretty darn chilly and I wandered--Bloomingdales and its black and white tiles and its rich stuff all over the place is just too tempting. I saw swimsuits and was struck with the knowledge that I was going to need one in about eight months and it was time to start looking.
I found two suits that I fell in love with instantly. They were one piece suits with original paintings printed into the fabric. They were high under the arms to cover my scars and the back was bare and low and my back is the best of what I've got these days.
One had a cowgirl wearing a great hat on the front in peaches and blues. The other had a herd of horses spilling across a mesa-type setting. They were $350 per suit. I looked at the designer name and wandered back to knit hats and Jim. Heavy sigh.
At the end of the summer, I began the new swimsuit quest in earnest. I figured there would be sales too. I looked everywhere. There was nothing I liked that worked with my body and anything that did work made me look like the Granny I am. Phooey on that.
I decided I'd try my eBay thing again. The suit designer turned out to be from Australia (We Are Handsome) and I checked out what was available. No more cowgirls, but a nice selection of scenery and critters. Not as pricey there, but still beyond what I would pay.
After three months and regularly checking in, I found and purchased three suits. No cowgirls. No herds of horses running on mesas. I did, however, find a roaring lion, a stallion, and a ferris wheel in my size. I found them all in the space of a week and bought them all.
They arrived and my flat chest made the straps way too long. I hadn't thought of that. Next quest--swimsuit alterations. Fortunately C. Fite sent me to a lady whose living room was punctuated by a beautiful priest's Christmas cassock that she was designing and sewing. Anybody who can make cassocks could fix my three swim suits I figured. Maybe God was on her side.
I picked the suits up yesterday. They fit perfectly and I am set to go to warm and sunny places for several years. It was a happy quest. Happy trails to me.
We are headed to warm climates soon and my sit-by-the-pool-and-get-a-tan-while-sipping-on-margaritas wardrobe had died in Mexico in May of 2012. The three identical suits suits died after four years of serious service in Mexico and Belize.
I have some really strong memories that have survived the trash bag burial of the suits. I once spent a day alone at the Camelback Spa in Scottsdale and while I sat by the pool, a table of folks talked about how wonderful Starkey Productions had been for his business event. Makes a mom proud.
I was hanging out at the infinity pool at Chaa Creek, my favorite resort in Belize, and I was having my very first caipirinha (a great drink) and reading a book about book restoration that took place in Florence, Italy. We were there with Bud and Janet and between the four of us we can strike up a conversation with almost anyone. We had a wonderful moment with the Chaa Creek owner and learned the history of the resort (it started with his wife selling homemade yogurt in the nearby village) and ended with him giving us a personal tour of his organic garden that fed the guests. We missed the Belizian zoo to tour his garden. It was a magnificent morning.
I made friends with the pirate salesman who roamed around the resort pool in Puerto Vallarta. He sold pirate bandanas that kept Jim from burning his scalp that trip (I think I bought four of them). He wore me down and Janet and I finally agreed to go on the Pirate dinner cruise and show. I still like the pirate bandanas. The pirate cruise and show--not so good.
There are more memories, but that's not where this was supposed to go.
The three dead suits were originally very hard to find. I've had a mastectomy and I lift weights. I have a broad back on no front and I don't wear replacements (plastic surgery was not an option for me). Swimsuits and sweaters are tough.
After a month or so of serious swim suit shopping, I found a hot pink Juicy Brand strapless one piece that looked liked a long top over a bikini bottom. It covered my scars. It was hot pink--that awful Juicy pink and I'm too old for that and for whatever reason I'm not wild about pink since my cancer experiences. I don't want to define myself by cancer.
The clerk at Nordstrom told me the suit originally came in grey and turquoise (excellent choices), but they were long gone across the country. She was right. I tried every store the internet had as well. That's when I learned about eBay. It took several months, but I ended up with three of the suits in the right colors and for much better prices than the pink one I began to feel badly about leaving behind.
Since the death of the Juicy suits, I haven't needed one (NYC in April and Wyoming were not pool/ocean destinations). NYC focused me though. I was walking through Bloomingdale's while we were looking for a winter hat for Jim because it was pretty darn chilly and I wandered--Bloomingdales and its black and white tiles and its rich stuff all over the place is just too tempting. I saw swimsuits and was struck with the knowledge that I was going to need one in about eight months and it was time to start looking.
I found two suits that I fell in love with instantly. They were one piece suits with original paintings printed into the fabric. They were high under the arms to cover my scars and the back was bare and low and my back is the best of what I've got these days.
One had a cowgirl wearing a great hat on the front in peaches and blues. The other had a herd of horses spilling across a mesa-type setting. They were $350 per suit. I looked at the designer name and wandered back to knit hats and Jim. Heavy sigh.
At the end of the summer, I began the new swimsuit quest in earnest. I figured there would be sales too. I looked everywhere. There was nothing I liked that worked with my body and anything that did work made me look like the Granny I am. Phooey on that.
I decided I'd try my eBay thing again. The suit designer turned out to be from Australia (We Are Handsome) and I checked out what was available. No more cowgirls, but a nice selection of scenery and critters. Not as pricey there, but still beyond what I would pay.
After three months and regularly checking in, I found and purchased three suits. No cowgirls. No herds of horses running on mesas. I did, however, find a roaring lion, a stallion, and a ferris wheel in my size. I found them all in the space of a week and bought them all.
They arrived and my flat chest made the straps way too long. I hadn't thought of that. Next quest--swimsuit alterations. Fortunately C. Fite sent me to a lady whose living room was punctuated by a beautiful priest's Christmas cassock that she was designing and sewing. Anybody who can make cassocks could fix my three swim suits I figured. Maybe God was on her side.
I picked the suits up yesterday. They fit perfectly and I am set to go to warm and sunny places for several years. It was a happy quest. Happy trails to me.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
What's Good For The 1% Is Good For The Gander
Slow On The Uptake
While hanging out in bed this morning somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I started thinking about payroll taxes of all things. Do you remember that as part of the stimulus to get the economy rolling again, payroll taxes were lowered by a full two percentage points and totally forgiven for people, like my sister and brother-in-law, who were bringing in a certain amount of income or less. Conservatives didn't like the plan. It coddled people and made them dependent on an ever-expanding government. At their first chance, Congress reinstated the earlier tax rate in the name of, I guess, fairness.
So I started thinking about that attitude, the attitude that says forgiving my barely-making-ends-meet brother-in-law the pittance of payroll taxes (6.5% of his meagre income) he pays would somehow hurt him and the country. Back in the 80's Reagan and Tip O'Neal (sp?) agreed to raise the rate of the payroll tax to the current 6.5% in an effort to restore long-term solvency to Social Security. The rate went up and, if Reagan and Alan Greenspan had in fact put that extra money into the SS Trust Fund instead of using it to defray the unsustainable cost of Reagan's popular (to the wealthy) tax cuts, Social Security would be on pretty firm footing even as we speak. But they didn't do that. Not only didn't they do that, but the 6.5% payroll tax only applied to an individual's first $110,000 of earnings (payroll taxes going to Medicare were set at something like 1.4% and applied to all income).
If that's the case (and it is), I couldn't help but think about the hypocrisy of all those folks (read:Mitt Romney and the rest of the 1%) who were screaming doom and gloom over letting people like my brother-in-law off the payroll tax hook. Romney famously talked about creators and takers. The takers were all those people who were living off the largesse of the federal government without paying their fair share in taxes. These takers were being turned into dependent free-loaders by profligate Democrats. Insert as many GASPS here as you would like.
But what about people like Romney and Ryan and Coburn and Boehner and Limbaugh and Hannity, etc.? I suspect Romney's income is above $110,000. Let's be conservative and say he pulls down $500,000 in salary from Bain, or whoever. That means he earns $400,00 free of payroll tax. Doesn't that governmental break turn him into a dependent taker just like the break for my brother-in-law made him a taker. And what if Romney invests a couple of million in a mutual fund like Berkshire Hathaway and gains 10% in value over a year? Does he have to pay any payroll taxes on that? The answer is no.
I know I am a wild-eyed liberal, but there seems to be a fundamental unfairness here. It seems like we believe (rather our Congress comprised of wealthy white guys believes) that eliminating the taxes of the poor makes them dependent takers and hurts our country; on the other hand, eliminating the taxes of the wealthy creates jobs and makes our country great. After all what's good for the 1% is good for the country. I would have to take exception here. The truth is that what is good for the 1% is good for the 1%, country be damned.
While hanging out in bed this morning somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I started thinking about payroll taxes of all things. Do you remember that as part of the stimulus to get the economy rolling again, payroll taxes were lowered by a full two percentage points and totally forgiven for people, like my sister and brother-in-law, who were bringing in a certain amount of income or less. Conservatives didn't like the plan. It coddled people and made them dependent on an ever-expanding government. At their first chance, Congress reinstated the earlier tax rate in the name of, I guess, fairness.
So I started thinking about that attitude, the attitude that says forgiving my barely-making-ends-meet brother-in-law the pittance of payroll taxes (6.5% of his meagre income) he pays would somehow hurt him and the country. Back in the 80's Reagan and Tip O'Neal (sp?) agreed to raise the rate of the payroll tax to the current 6.5% in an effort to restore long-term solvency to Social Security. The rate went up and, if Reagan and Alan Greenspan had in fact put that extra money into the SS Trust Fund instead of using it to defray the unsustainable cost of Reagan's popular (to the wealthy) tax cuts, Social Security would be on pretty firm footing even as we speak. But they didn't do that. Not only didn't they do that, but the 6.5% payroll tax only applied to an individual's first $110,000 of earnings (payroll taxes going to Medicare were set at something like 1.4% and applied to all income).
If that's the case (and it is), I couldn't help but think about the hypocrisy of all those folks (read:Mitt Romney and the rest of the 1%) who were screaming doom and gloom over letting people like my brother-in-law off the payroll tax hook. Romney famously talked about creators and takers. The takers were all those people who were living off the largesse of the federal government without paying their fair share in taxes. These takers were being turned into dependent free-loaders by profligate Democrats. Insert as many GASPS here as you would like.
But what about people like Romney and Ryan and Coburn and Boehner and Limbaugh and Hannity, etc.? I suspect Romney's income is above $110,000. Let's be conservative and say he pulls down $500,000 in salary from Bain, or whoever. That means he earns $400,00 free of payroll tax. Doesn't that governmental break turn him into a dependent taker just like the break for my brother-in-law made him a taker. And what if Romney invests a couple of million in a mutual fund like Berkshire Hathaway and gains 10% in value over a year? Does he have to pay any payroll taxes on that? The answer is no.
I know I am a wild-eyed liberal, but there seems to be a fundamental unfairness here. It seems like we believe (rather our Congress comprised of wealthy white guys believes) that eliminating the taxes of the poor makes them dependent takers and hurts our country; on the other hand, eliminating the taxes of the wealthy creates jobs and makes our country great. After all what's good for the 1% is good for the country. I would have to take exception here. The truth is that what is good for the 1% is good for the 1%, country be damned.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
SUNDAY ON THE COUCH WITH KATHERINE
Good Morning. This is Katherine. If I do not identify myself, it's Jim. I know this is hard for everybody, but we taught forever together and raised kids together and slept together and have done everything together and we seem to blog and FaceBook together and it gets really confusing for some folks. Today it's Katherine though.
"Good Morning" is my current favorite greeting, but I always hear it in my friend David's voice. He is a native of Birmingham, Alabama. He has a wonderful voice and accent. It's delicious when he calls and out pops his version of "Good Morning." I wish you could hear him when I type this.
I just watched SUNDAY MORNING. It is my favorite television show. I learn so much. Kevin Kline married Phoebe Cates (the swimming pool girl in FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH). Is that cool or what?
The show always makes me think like an artist. It's the suns. Between each segment there is a different artistic rendition of the sun. They are beautiful. I love looking at the suns.
We have a large artistic sun hanging above (maybe over) our shower in our bedroom bath. It was the final touch on my bathroom vision several years ago.
Jim was instrumental in making my artistic vision of the bathroom happen. Jim retiled the shower in deep royal blue rectangular tiles with very white grout. He tiled the floor with small white tiles, again with white grout. Jim's handyman guru, Bud Simmons, advised against the white grout. I ignored him--I was painting the bathroom.
The tile is wonderful. Thank you sweetie. I still like my white grout. I especially like the part where you clean it.
I had Jim paint the walls gray. I ordered super gigantic beach towels from Sundance (on sale for an amazing $18 per towel--an Olympic shopping coup for my side). Two wildly striped towels hang from a very cool and heavy-duty towel rack that stores the extras above. I put up a painting of a scientist holding a test tube by former student Shawnty Whitam who seems to be swimming in an ocean on the only wall with enough size for it.
Just above the toilet paper, there is a poster former student Lisa Woltkamp Kish gave us. It's a collection of haikus that appeared on marquis's in NYC one year. Jim asks me sometimes which is the best or my favorite. I refuse to respond. Each trip to the bathroom is a new experience and I see one in a whole new way. What can I say?
Toilet paper is stored in a blue and white Chinese vase thing my mom gave me. Works. There is a giant stainless steel jack (you know--like the game of jacks) in the corner on the floor. My AP students gave it to me the day I returned to class from cancer treatments. I played jacks with students for years. I love it. It's heavy and lovely and full of wonder for me.
With all this, the bathroom was an unfinished painting. Bud and Janet Simmons provided the solution when they invited us to spend time with them in Puerto Vallarta. After a tour through the market by the river cut, I knew I needed a sun for my bathroom painting.
We looked at various places and returned to markets and I finally fell in love with our sun. It is "Hedwig." It is both male and female and I always connect it with the time Jim and I went to see Hedwig and the Angry Inch and were the only straight folks in the audience and at dinner afterwards a former student spotted us and walked up and said hello and announced he'd come out before we could say howdy. A memorable date. Mostly--I loved Hedwig, the movie--very mythic about the sexes. It is still something I love to watch.
Anyway, I fell for the lone bi-sexual sun we saw in a market stall and I didn't bargain enough to please Bud. I didn't bargain at all. I loved the sun. The family running the stall where I bought my sun went to great lengths to tape it up in cardboard slabs so I could get it home. The sun is big. It's pretty heavy. It's gorgeous. It's hard to explain how hard they worked so I could get my sun home.
Time passed and we headed home with my sun in hand. This was our first trip to Mexico and we were leaving before Bud and Janet and we were on our own with minimal cash at that point.
I can't remember how many get-into-a-plane-and-back-home steps we had taken when we were required to go pay some folks to re-package our sun. For reasons that were unclear, we needed to redo the amazing box structure the stall family had built around my sun. We watched as airport officials carefully cut away the box on our sun and rewrapped it with cardboard from the same pile. They must have known how much cash we had left--it took it all to pay them for their efforts.
Hedwig, my sun, once it made it back to Colorado, was the end of my bathroom painting. I love my bathroom.
It was the suns on Sunday Morning that got me started. I'm pretty frustrated that I have an artist's eye without the obsession needed to do some things I'd like. Jim has written two books and I've seen obsession. It's annoying, but it's impressive as hell.
I know I see many things through the eyes of George Seurat as Stephen Sondheim saw him in Sunday the Park with George. It's one of the works of art that changed how I saw the world. That's a lot for a musical comedy.
In the musical, George lists the words he thinks make art. I used to know them by heart and now I know I'm missing several.
Here are George's words the ones I remember, and how I see them in my wee artistic world:
ORDER: This is structure and pattern. It is a simple as chronological order or as complicated as the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Some structure must illuminate parameters and then it is the artist's job to break those parameters. There is an intentional ocean/water thing going on in my bathroom and my haiku poster and my jack sculpture break the rules. Master the structure and then break it where it shows. Knit a lace shawl, but it do it with a yarn no one else will. That's what I'm playing with now. Knitting outside the lines.
LIGHT: This is point of view. I taught our kids to look at paintings by teaching them to look for where the light was coming from and that way they could think about point of view. It was sheer intuition. It works though. I also want to take the word literally. Art is light--like art is not heavy. Ponderous things are sermons, not art. My bathroom, my knitting--I hope I'm seeing things like a painter (sigh because I do not paint with any grace at all) and I hope there is a sense of humor in there somewhere.
COMPOSITION: What is the object composed of? Color? Notes? Words? Yarn? Wood? What are the limits and possibilities? I am collecting Mexican tiles for another bathroom. I am beginning a composition. In writing I think of this in terms of ideas and details and vocabulary and grammar and all those kinds of things. I have always had a really hard time explaining this because it seems so obvious. It's more than the medium--that's all the more I want to say about this.
DESIGN: This is the purpose. Why did the artist do this? I wanted to enjoy hanging out in my bathroom and frankly there isn't a spot anywhere in the house that isn't covered in art and the bathroom was the only room left at that point. Now I want to paint with yarn and I want to stretch boundaries with textures and colors. My biggest frustration there is that my knitting skills have not yet caught up with what I can see in my head. I never even got close in any other medium.
TENSION: This is juxtaposition. Two things stand next to each other that don't belong and it arrests the viewer and with luck the viewer emotes or thinks or reacts in some way the object has provoked. Though ludicrous examples, I'm happy with how my bathroom and knitting hold up here.
HARMONY: This is George's last word. All of the elements must come together into something that is comfortable even if the composition or the subject or the content of the art is not comfortable. I need to really like entering my bathroom or wearing my knitted creation. I need to feel more complete after reading the book or seeing the movie.
I'm done. I'm tired. We're headed to the art museum to see the Paris exhibit and a late lunch afterwards. It seems fitting.
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