Posts in Category: Family
My Brother-Cousin
Tommy asked for forgiveness. Tommy Panos and I were first cousins; our mothers were sisters. Our families lived in the same city, Fresno, then on the same block, then right next door with a pass-through in the fence. Our families were close, and I am an only child, and so I always looked up to Tommy as my big brother. He was five years older than me.
I remember when I was about four years old, Tommy’s family would come visit ours on West Cornell Ave., and Tommy would push me around the block on my tricycle — me on the seat and Tommy standing on the step behind me, steering and pushing with the other leg as on a scooter. Typically, the ride started out fun, and then got exciting, then got thrilling, then got terrifying as Tommy jumped off and I frantically tried to steer until my trike slowed to a manageable speed. Then I was ready for another lap.
A few years later we both lived on Griffith Way. I would beg to hang around with him. Tommy would offer to hike me on his bike to go to the 7-11 to get candy or a slurpee. I would get on the handlebars of his Schwinn Varsity 10-speed. Tommy would take off and by half way down the block we would be moving pretty fast. That’s when he’d simply jump off the bike and see how far it would stay up with me on the handlebars before it went crashing over. He’d laugh hysterically, but then come and get me up and hug me, and then buy me some candy.
I would beg, beg, beg for him to take me on his paper route (Fresno Bee) with him. This meant he would hike me on the back of the heavy-duty Schwinn with the paper bags. I don’t know how he survived hiking me along with all those newspapers. Getting to go along meant helping too, and that was fine with me. He would ask for papers and I would pull them out and hand them to him as needed. We would always stop at the 7-11 and get black pepper beef jerky, some candy or a coke.
There was only one catch: Rover. The huge carmel-brown dog at the corner of Swift and College or so. I can’t remember if it was a hound or what. I just remember that Tom would miss that porch and I would be sent to go get the paper and put it on the porch. That meant facing Rover. That deep bark blew my hair back and set me to tears. Usually Rover was lying around right in front of the porch and I would start to inch my way toward the ivy to hunt for the paper, the dog bellowing at me the entire time. Tommy would laugh and laugh. Then, he’d buy me all kinds of treats at the 7-11. We’d sit around and he’d counsel me on bikes and cars and making paper airplanes, anything else that his quick mind conjured. Somehow, I never got bitten. I also never quit looking up to him, appreciating his spirit, sense of fun, and sheer coolness. But I never got over my fear of dogs. It was nice of Tommy to try to break me free of it. Sort of.
We told all these stories before, when Tommy was my best man. We laughed and laughed, and ate and drank, and laughed some more. By then, he had gone off to San Francisco and success selling bond investments. He still had his sense of fun and his need to share everything he found and everything he enjoyed with those around him.
Once when I was about 17, i went to the Bay Area for a concert, and, of course, my friend and I stayed with Tommy. When my friend left the next day, Tommy had insisted I stay the weekend to hang out with him and said he’d get me home. Sunday afternoon came and no arrangements had been made. Tommy called an agent and arranged to fly me back to Fresno. The next flight out of Oakland was in about an hour. We took off from his house in Orinda, drove insanely fast to the airport, and ran to the counter. He slapped the ticket in my hand, and gave me a push. I ran through the terminal and got to the plane with the hostess impatiently holding the door open for me, the last person to get on, for my very first plane flight ever.
There were many other firsts for me and Sarah with Tommy. And Tommy always insisted on paying for everything. Our first time dining at Fourth Street Bar and Grill in Berkeley, back before anything else was there at all; our first time at Zuni Cafe in San Francisco, and at the famous Stars, and innumerable other restaurants, bars and theaters. My first, and only, show at ACT to see Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. And to the Bammies, and concerts, and to nightclubs here and gone. He took me on my first hike up to Cataract Falls on Mt Tam, and after the hike, straight to Frogs Spa for a soak and a massage. He loved food, and loved to cook, and the list of foods and dishes he introduced me to is endless.
Tommy had keen senses and became a connoisseur of everything in which he took an interest, from primitive art to jazz music. But more than that, he could not really enjoy anything unless he was sharing it with those whom he loved. One of the things he loved to share was people. He introduced so many people to each other, and gathered so many smart, interesting, and wonderful people around him, he was the hub of an incredible 360 degrees without separation. He was the most generous person I have ever known or ever will know. He wanted to do everything for everybody. He wanted to at least do something for each person he ever bumped into.
Somehow, in a way we will never understand, this desire consumed him. His most selfish act was to take himself away from this world and all those who love him so much, in order to escape the feeling that he had to be there for everyone.
Tommy. Honey. Brother. I love you. I miss you. I forgive you. I hope your wondrous spirit will continue to teach me and guide me.
Obit in sfgate.
Paul Serafimidis Studio Shot
While this last Sunday was father’s day, I did not have much of an opportunity to think about my own father. Now I’m a father, and this weekend both my son Theo and my wife Sarah were sick. My 89-year old mother came over early and required a bit of attention. There was plenty to do around the house and in the garden.
Over the last couple days i saw several really wonderful, touching photos and stories in my flickr contact list. That returned my thoughts to my own father, and i remembered that this morning he appeared in one of my dreams. I don’t know if it was about him; I don’t often really know what my dreams are about.
In my dream, I was walking down the sidewalk with my father and my mother. We were walking down the street where we lived when i was very small, W. Cornell Ave. in Fresno. My father was walking the way he always did when I was a child: very briskly. My mother was walking painfully and slowly, with a walker, just the way she does now. I was sort of going back and forth between them. The strange thing about this was that my mother was out in front, and my father was lagging behind, despite his quick stride. That’s dreams for you. I don’t remember much else right now.
As the time wore on between Sunday and tonight, my vague thoughts about my father intensified and increasingly I wished that I too had thought to commemorate him on father’s day with a photo and a story. Tonight, a lot of these thoughts and feelings coalesced into the realization that tomorrow, June 18th is the 14th anniversary of his death. In 1994, that was a Saturday, the day before father’s day, and Sarah and I were driving to Fresno for a father’s day visit from Seattle, where I had gone off to grad school.
So tonight, I am posting to commemorate him after all. He was a wonderful person and wonderful father. I kinda wish I could channel him so I could be better at those roles myself. Perhaps someday, I will.
Mom’s Western Holly
A bit tragic. The stove was in mom’s house in Fresno. The renters swapped it out with the Wedgewood that I had stored in the garage there, and left it out in the elements for a couple months. When I found out, I brought it up to the Bay Area and stored it at my work place for a couple years. I fretted about it and wondered where I could move it. I called some old stove restorers to see about having it serviced and cleaned up. They didn’t want to work on it, but said they would take it off my hands for parts, for free. I said “no”. I eventually had to it move out back of the shop wrapped in plastic for several months. But eventually the wrapping failed, and it got wet and started to rust. The other day, a couple scavengers from the neighborhood came by in an old Datsun pickup and asked if we wanted to get rid of it and a crappy old refrigerator that was sitting with it. At this point, I was no longer able to justify spending a lot of money trying to fix it up, and I had no place to install it, or to store it. I gave it to them. Another little piece of my life lost in the mists of time.
Of carbs and men
This last weekend we travelled to the Marin coast to see my friend’s, Seth Dickerman, show at Bolinas Art Museum. I had a number of revelations.
I love his work even more than I thought I did. There is something genuinely mysterious and magical about the process that results in these deep, soft, obscure landscapes. I wonder if it can be achieved digitally. Seth both shoots film and is also a master printer, and so there is a physical process that occurs that produces special results. What I find particularly interesting is the simultaneous presence of both the blur and softness of hand-held long exposures, and some very sharp details that echo back into the depths of the image. There is also a way in which these images convey a tremendous sense of motion–not the motion of the photographers hands, but of a vast, wind-swept earth, sea and sky. I have experimented with my own handheld long exposures with the digital, but had only limited success. I am now more committed than ever to at it and someday learn to speak this wonderful language of unseen motion.
A more mundane but very important revelation I had was the this beautiful stretch of coast is so close to my home that there is no excuse for not visiting every other week. We stayed in Point Reyes Station, a mere 60 minutes from Berkeley. Somehow we forget how close it all is and how lucky we are to live in this part of the world. So, we are renewing our efforts to get out to Marin, Sonoma, and beyond at least a couple times a month.
Finally, a conversation I had over the weekend got me thinking again about how I regain the crispness of mind and energy that I used to have. That led me to two courses of action. The first is to get back to commuting by bike. I notice that really do have a better disposition and more energy when I do. The second more radical course of action is change my eating habits–in a way that will test my willpower like nothing has since I quite smoking many, many years ago. Basically it amounts to drastically slashing my consumption of high-carb food.
The problem is I LOVE bread. I mean I love it. I mean I could easily eat a loaf a day. In my Mediterranean culture, every meal is eaten with a fork in one hand and a piece of bread in the other. I eat several pieces of toast for breakfast every morning, with cheeses, yogurt, fruit, jams, eggs, whatever. How I am going to turn this around, I don’t know, but I have got to try.
I started today. Cheese, fake sausage patties, and fruit for breakfast. It was good and I somehow made until lunch time. For lunch I had, don’t laugh, a salad from Subway. It is one of the few places, and the only inexpensive one, to eat near my work in Emeryville. So, I have been going there on certain days for the six-inch special sandwich ($2.99) loaded up with veggies. So, today I had a turkey and cheese, hold the bread, extra veggies. It was actually pretty good and I made until dinner. At dinner I ate my first bread product of the day. I survived my first day with almost no bread!
Indulgent Parent or Crafty Photographer?
Caleb, House and Topiary, originally uploaded by neocles.
Saturday was a long day. It started by my rushing around trying to get various domestic chores and to-do’s done before helping good neighbor friends the Fosters with day two of their move to a new place. Dig the topiary.
So after grocery shopping, collecting up mom’s laundry, getting a hair cut, last minute trip to the drug store for more allergy drugs–damn! The decongestant-antihistamine-pain reliever combo drug is TWICE as expensive with real pseudo-ephedrine in it!–I arrived to help with the move. I’m sure glad my neighborly friends and pillars of civic life in Albany, CA found a place in town to hatch the next one, and didn’t have to move to, say, Albany NY. Housing prices have managed to stand pat around here. They say it’s the schools.
Meanwhile, we had strongly intimated to, if not outright promised, Theo that we would go check out the free telescope viewing at Chabot Space and Science Center. Well, by the time the packing, loading, unloading, organizing, pizza, and beer was done and we got home, it was durn near 9 p.m. That’s pretty late for chilluns to be heading out to party.
But a promise is a promise, as we were repeatedly, like a skipping CD, reminded. Indulgent parent that I am, I agreed to take him up there to see what we could see. Theo had a disco nap in the car on the way there, and I had to wake his ass up upon arrival.
It was a good night for viewing. We saw the Beehive Cluster, M3 Globular Cluster, Capella binary star system (I think), and Saturn with four of its moons! Seeing Saturn through a big telescope is pretty awesome. Theo is totally into it; looks like we’ll be coming back often. And since we were going anyway, I took camera and tripod along for the heck of it. Results below.
Family Affairs
Well, it goes like this. Sarah returned last week from London where she goes every year for the London Book Fair. You might have guessed that’s where the London Book Fair would be held. Although, a couple years ago it was in the Docklands, which apparently did not SEEM like London to many of the attendees, prompting a return the following year to a more central location at Earl’s Court. This year, Sarah reports having a bit more time to see something other than the inside of the convention hall. She hung out with her boss and his wife. Fine meals and beer were had at The Blackbird Pub, an upscale vegetarian restaurant called The Gate, an interesting Asian fusion place successfully mixing Indian, Thai, and dim sum, and finally another pub at Tottenham Court. Much fun was also apparently had at the Ingram party.
Meanwhile, back the ranch, Theo and I did our best to entertain ourselves. There were photo walks around the neighborhood, dinner at friends’ in the SF, yard work, and play dates. Finally, on the last night of Sarah’s absence we had a rather too exciting evening with the in-laws at Kensington Circus Pub. The excitement started when a less-than-perfectly behaved child throwing toys and intimidating other children (Theo included), finally caused my mother-in-law to march over to the other table and dress down the mom over the lack of oversight. We quickly paid and left.
Then the fun really begins. We went out to the parking lot to find that a beat-up, mid-80’s BMW was parked immediately behind our Honda CRV in the parking lot, thus blocking us in. While I tried unsuccessfully to maneuver around the heap, the father-in-law went around to the restaurant and other stores trying to find its owner. After a bit he comes back and says, “She’s coming to move it. It’s a psychologist with an office across the street, and she says she’s made her point.” I was already steaming, having convinced myself that this HAD to be intentional, not accidental. So she walks up and says, “That’s what you get for parking at an angle.” Of course, my car was now at an angle because I had spent the last 15 or 20 minutes trying to get around the heap.
While my car began not at an angle, but quite parallel to the other cars in the stalls, it was taking up the last two stalls at the end of the row. The reason for that was the last stall had a bench jutting out into it and a extra concrete parking bumper in its midst, and they are narrow to boot.
Needless to say, I had nothing but unkind words for her. We spent the next 5 minutes with all five of us yelling at her, Theo included (“you’re a bad guy”), to move her heap immediately. As you would guess, someone sociopathic enough to do this in the first place had plenty of cuss words and inanities to spew back. Theo probably learned all of George Carlin’s seven words in the exchange.
I told her she clearly had issues and needs to see a psychologist, to which paused, stumbled and exclaimed, “I AM a psychologist!” I said, “I know, that’s the joke in it dearie.” (As far back as my community college psych class I’ve thought that some of them go into it the hope of curing themselves. But they never do.) And with that, she moved, we left, and we came home for dessert. And a shot of of whiskey!
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