Posted By ianwalk on July 7, 2009
here are some pics from the last few months here in oregon. click on the pic below and enjoy!
acá tienes algunas fotos de los últimos meses aqui en oregon. haz clic en la siguiente foto y disfruta!
Posted By ianwalk on April 19, 2009
it being such a lovely day outside, i decided to paste into today’s post a note i wrote this morning to an irish friend of mine.
when the sun (finally) shines here in western oregon (you’ll understand this, being a dubliner) you can sense a collective rise in spirits and optimism, as if to-do lists just spontaneuously shortened, wallets fattened, legs got longer, jaws more square, bra cup sizes a letter higher, friends closer at hand, phone calls with more good news, traffic lighter…the only thing less tolerable is the length of the work day.
everything out my window right now is vivid, that spring shade that defies even the word “green”.
it’s saturated with life.
band-tailed pigeons sit in the tree branches, stacked in rows, waiting for some communal signal that will bring them down to the seeds my dad scattered on the ground earlier. They fall to feed like plump gray-feathered rain.
blue jays shuck and jive at the feeders, caviar-colored eyes searching through all the directional prepositions…up, down, through…
everything worships the sun: leaves, needles, blades, fronds, and faces all turned upwards, offering it up.
supplication and reverence.
all of this begs the question: what in hell am i doing inside writing this?
goodbye.
Posted By ianwalk on April 14, 2009
the room fills up slowly. comfortably. so many faces familiar but changed. “wrinklier”, “frecklier”, chubbier skinnier, taller, more stooped, hair longer, shorter, gone entirely. liver spots, pimples, crow’s feet, make up.
we’re in the upstairs part of the servino, a tiburon restaurant owned and operated by sweaters-around-the-neck, boat-shoe-shod italians. it looks out on a perfect easter sunday bay. today its the period at the end of sentences that say “airplane.”, “car.”, “travel.”: l.a., santa barbara, marin, arcada, santa cruz, martinez, arnold, oregon, arizona, singapore and more.
for peggy.
eighty years. eighty years! what a thing to celebrate! this one steady, stylish, vibrant life, changed only by maybe a more cautious step, a more calculated, deliberate descent into chairs and car seats. she’s as curious and engaged as ever; as observant and empathetic. a woman who has mastered the ideal pronunciation of “fAbulous”, “mArvelous” and “pErfect”…that subtle lift of the first syllable, the very essence of the superlative. a lover of the arts, of antiques, of travel, but mostly (and most movingly) of her family and friends.
i take up a spot by the bar. (sanctuary?) nervous. i still feel the child around my aunts and uncle, around my older cousins. they’ve always been monumental figures to me, points of reference in all things intellectual and adventurous.
my younger relatives, however are for lack of time spent together, still brief anecdotes and christmas card photos to me. i’m an unknown to them, just one among many old, boring faces that reel into view with the usual exclamations of “my god you’ve grown!” or “wow, last time i saw you, you were just yay high” or “nice to meet you, i’m your cousin!”
another quick sip of mimosa. champagne and orange juice…it’s like queen elizabeth wearing flannel long johns…it should be wrong bit it’s so right.
it’s a surprise party. her e.t.a.: ten minutes.
i look around. there’s doug, peggy’s oldest. movie producer. he’s all over the place right now, rocking the logistics, tying up the loose ends. scudding from one end of the room to the other, checking on projectors, spirits, flowers, tables, arrival times, food, music, all while shaking hands, hugging, laughing, nodding, catching up with family and friends. he’ll fly out right after the party, back to l.a., four days of cleanup shooting on the latest bruce willis vehicle. i get stressed out just thinking about it (nothing another sip of mimosa can’t help) but he’s never looked better. he’s in his element. fully. his son james moves along with him, carrying out orders and suggestions with aplomb and good humor. the young man passes through my sphere of influence, I shake his hand, say “wow, the last time i saw…”, you know, the usual.
there’s steve, the second oldest, feverishly piecing together his speech. owns a couple sports equipment stores. works his ass off. an adventurer in the guise of a businessman. one of those types who was always in on the beginning of everything cool (and more than a little dangerous), i remember the specialized rockhopper, the skis, the snowboards, the stories he’d lay out with his legendary comic timing. he’s just spent a better part of the night before and this very morning calling relatives, asking for anecdotes about his mom. an eleventh hour guy…a man after my own heart.
i get caught up in a conversation with a man at the bar. nervous tic and high-mileage eyes. a friend of the family. the bartender slides him a champagne flute filled up to the rim. “this have champagne in it?” he asks. the bartender nods. “can’t do it. just give me one with nothing but o.j.” he tells me about his big skiing days, visits to argentina and cerro catedral back in early seventies, about living and partying hard up at U of O. Dad died helicopter skiing, brother drowned in the mckenzie river. jesus, what a crazy thing, life. the tic and the eyes make sense now. he’s got his demons around the throat…”don’t let go, buddy” i think. “not now you’ve got them cornered.”
i see isabel talking with family friends. her rushing flow of words supported by expansive hand gestures and that great laugh take me back to yerba buena street. she’s the aunt i spent the most time with when i was a kid because elisa and i were so close in age. the green house, victor, the creaky stairs, blacky, and hours spent in the warm kitchen.
cindy comes up and gives me a huge, warm hug. but in a flash she’s gone. she’s a lightning bolt. she’s a big reason this party is even happening. if i had but a fraction of her energy i’d be able to run a one minute mile. i chuckle to myself. it’s the first “latin” embrace i’ve had since getting back from argentina. it reminds me that even here amongst family, most hugs are conservative, almost tentative things. god forbid we invade one another’s personal space.
there’s edie, doug’s wife, all style and warm eyes. we rush to catch up, mutual wonderment at the rapid passing of time. talk of manhatten beach. talk of her kids. and a quick hello and “i’m your cousin” to her daughter, chloe. fifteen going on heart-breaker.
in fact, that’s the case with all my cousins. they have in beauty, good cheer and poise what my generation of cousins had in black sheep and bohemian tendencies. laurel and her sister lilly skip by. the most beautiful ginger hair and forthright spirits. whip-quick minds. then lexi and sophie flow past, graceful and confident, so much so that you can’t help but conjure up clichés of rushes and willows. james and sean kai, unassuming head-turners, one with a barely-tamed shock of blond hair, the other with japan and ireland meeting in perfect harmony, each one straightforward, self-aware, warm. and kristin, julia, adria and annika, the trees clan, playing pickup sticks, handclap games, chatting with you and me and everyone. fresh faces, huge smiles, and a shining, world-affirming kindness. then gavin, erin and peter. the first two siblings, the third a cousin, but each of them a harrington through and through; slender, thoughtful, curly hair and clear eyes, their smiles, timid or quick are equally infectious. genuine.
my god but they are every one of them beautiful, amazing, unique, engaging human beings.
there’s my mom and dad, neither of them drinkers, now on their third or fourth mimosa or bellini (mom: “ian, have you tried one of these…these…well, it starts with a b anyway…peach juice and champagne…delicious!” me: “yeah, mom, it’s a bellini.”) how i admire and love them! (maybe the mimosas are hitting me a bit now, too) every quality that i like about myself: my curiosity, my empathy, my sensitivity, and sense of family, even my restlessness…i owe to them. they love and support me without conditions. they are my friends. i get a lump in my throat, hurry back to the bar, swap my mimosa for a glass of ice water.
there are some cute, white-haired wrinkly types milling about. awesome hairspray sculptures, shiny jewelry, hairy ears and brezhnev-eyebrows. peggy’s friends from back in the day. a few hundred years of dreams, deeds, tragedies and triumphs toasting one another and chuckling at this and that memory. Their names sound familiar to me, the protagonists in a hundred stories told at countless gatherings, like sacred chants now, almost.
there’s chris and daphne looking top notch. they seem to be on a roll, those times in life when it all just clicks together…along for the ride as their kids leo and peter kick life’s proverbial buttocks. repeatedly. and the same could be said for kate and cam. he’s in fighting shape, fresh and vigorous and kate shines as she moves from group to group with her kids in tow.
rex is here with his uncanny ability to make anyone feel comfortable, even calm. he’s a smiling, perambulatory sliver of zen-ness. how i envy that quality. (i take a sip of india pale ale…the water long-since quaffed…a poor substitute for zen, but what the hell)
doug channels his producer voice, tells us all to be quiet. “she’s coming up now” the place falls silent. we all watch the fizzled light behind the window in the swinging door, looking for movement. we wait. we keep waiting.
nervous laughter. a clever aside or two. hushing noises. shhhh!
She opens the door. “SURPRISE!”
peggy starts, collects herself, enters, genuinely moved. i glance at marianna, standing next to me. there are tears in her eyes. mine immediately well up, too. it really is one of those perfect moments. and mar stands with her youngest close by, smiling. what a great job she and mike have done with their children, laurel and lilly. how proud they must be of the wonderful work they’re doing. then i glance over at elisa, my partner in crime during those endless summers in san rafael. she has really come into her own. she and rod are also doing a remarkable job of raising their girls, kristin, julia, adria, and annika. i can only hope that if and when my turn comes to raise my own little humans i can do it as well as they have.
over there, that must be john. WORKING the room. I haven’t seen him in twenty plus years, just met his son sean kai today, still have never met his wife or girls. he spent his youth and early twenties partying, surfing, hitchhiking, crashing on couches, most certainly driving his marine-trained father to distraction. a move to japan to make some cash now parlayed through hard work and good timing into the world of advertising and hectic travel schedule around asia from his base in singapore. now, though, he’s casually charming the daylights out of everyone within a thirty foot radius.
the grandkids say a word about peggy. chloe breaks down, says “san francisco is my favorite city because of you.” and she and sophie, sobbing, tell her that she “makes the BEST whipped cream EVER.” (you never know what little things will stick with kids!) james tells her that while he doesn’t have a car he’d still be happy to “accompany her around town on BART” friends and sisters share anecdotes and her three “boys” thank their mom for everything.
doug, steve, john. peggy’s surviving sons. for the gawky, timid kid from the hicks of oregon that i was (am?), they were my familial idols…bearded, wild-haired prophets of freedom and spontaneity. brash. wicked-funny. confident. relaxed. rebellious. cool. determined. daring. crazy. they were all combinations of that and more. it really only dawns on me now that along with my parents and sister, those three guys collectively influenced me as much as anyone else in my youth. it was like knowing the three musketeers…but with board shorts, flip flops, sunburned backs, unruly mops of hair, scraggly beards and a half-smoked joint on the dash.
the party swirls on. i catch sight of my aunt judith and her husband richard. they move with natural grace, talking with facility about nearly any subject that comes up. richard has a sweet panama hat on. i tell him he really has his hannibal lector look going. he let’s it pass.
and there’s michael, arlene, kathy, her husband, their kids. michael throws an arm around my shoulder, asks me what I’m up to these days, asks me how I’m doing, means it. a small moment, but i wonder if he realizes how much it means to me.
eric, michael’s son strides in, taller than all. in a suit, straight from an easter gig on the other side of town. he’s a drummer. later that night, with john, rex and chris, i watch him play at the ritelite. and after, he and i drive around the steep night of san francisco trying to get ahold of what all this (family, love, hope, the grind) means, how it defines us. we say goodbye casually, knowing we’re there for one another.
being a part of this, catching bits of conversation and of story, seeing the photos of eighty years of peggy’s life, is like living for a few seconds in an epic serial drama. ski trips to soda springs, studebakers and packards, siblings pushed down stairs, old-school irish catholic fathers with draconic methods of discipline, hard-drinking fathers who might have been the great santini himself, bitter pills and painful memories of lost siblings, lost wives and husbands, of aids, polio, cancer. stories of wild times, of surfing, weed, fights with siblings at weddings, elopement, travel and chances taken, of pell mell last-minute dashes to airports, of sailing trips and trucks traded for horses, of lavish soirees and elbows rubbed, of laughter and helping hands, stories of ireland and the garlands, the dohrmanns and of the biens, of rags to riches and right back again, of hitchhiking and cruises, of interminable slide shows and fuzzy-haired grandmas, stories of our own little xanadu; that house overlooking the bay that we simply called san rafael, stories that sum up all that is implied when we say “good times” and “hard times”.
the party winds down. peggy thanks everyone for making her birthday so special. the room empties and i take a minute to replay it all in my head, i smile and ask myself a question to which i’ve always, most vividly known the answer:
“is their anything better, anything more important than that maddening, wonderful, unpredictable , heartbreakingly beautiful entity we call family?”
of course not.
i yawn. “damn those mimosas. i need a nap.”
