BoomerChicks

Boats, Tweets and BS!

June the 4th and we are having light showers and thunder in Southern California.  It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't so cold, and I didn't have a driveway full of stuff from my garage purge.  The dogs won't stop barking, as I run outside to move the important things under some type of shelter.

The day was not entirely ruined though by this sudden change in weather.  I received a phone call from my brother who lives in the northern part of the state.  He was feeling down because today, his precious boat sailed to its new home in Canada.  My brother took this scrappy burned out vessel from its sure demise and for fifteen years worked on it bringing it back to its glory and grandeur.  It seems that just as he launched it, he was struck with an illness that has drained him for the past six years resulting in four surgeries.  He really had no choice but to sell his prized possession.

It was sad to hear him talk about how he felt, and I was more than happy to listen if it helped him through the process.  It was good though to hear that he had become fast friends with the new owner who made it emphatically clear that anytime my brother wants visitation, he is welcome.  Still, it must have been a difficult time to see his dream sail away. 

While we talked, one thing led to another, as it always does when two siblings are kibitzing.  I brought up the subject of Twitter, asking my brother if he knew about this recent craze in social media.  I wasn't surprised that he knew nothing about it, as he is much more into building things with his hands and having face-to-face time with people.  He really didn't sound too enthusiastic as I explained the concept to him.  He brought up the times that, as kids, we hung out at the "wall" phone when our grandmother called waiting for our one minute turn to talk to her.  This was so very true.  We were so excited to get the chance to talk to her on the phone.  We compared the likes of yesterday to today, with everyone carrying a cell phone and being able to talk anywhere, anytime.  Ah, progress!  Now we have Twitter -- instant gratification. 

The reason though that I brought up Twitter to my brother was to tell him that he should sign up for an account.  He builds exquisite guitars and I believe it would be a great outlet for him to sell them.  As crappy as he feels, and trust me, his illness is debilitating, he manages to stay busy building these beautiful instruments.  Slowly and methodically, he turns out a product of perfection -- they are stunning.  I am convinced that Bono himself would want one if he knew they existed!

Back to our conversation though.  I told my brother that he could send out "tweets" about his guitars, that he didn't need to use it as a conversation piece, but rather as a broadcasting mechanism.  "Tweets?", he said.  Just the way he said it made me chuckle, (tweet is a pretty bizarre word -- isn't that what birds do?).  It was his next comment though that packed the punch.  "Bullshit!", he said.  I began to laugh and he then stated, "I sounded like Dad, huh?" 

We went into a fifteen minute hysteria reminiscing about our Dad.  My brother said, "Remember when he took that computer class and walked out after five minutes?"  Did I remember?  It was unforgettable.  Our father came home and told all of us, "That guy didn't know what the hell he was talking about.  It was bullshit!"  This coming from a man who didn't know the difference yet between a monitor or a keyboard.  In fact, if I remember correctly, I think back then the terminology he used was "TV screen" and a "typewriter".  We roared with laughter.

Catching his breath, my brother then told me about the time he spent with our Dad at one of his Korean vets reunions in San Francisco.  One of the events was a tour of Alcatraz, and as my brother and father waited in line to board the ferry to the prison, Dad began to stress about how far back in line they were.  My brother assured him that the ferry would not leave without them.  Dad's response, "this is bullshit!"  Once inside the prison, the tour called for wearing a headset to understand what they were seeing during the tour.  Dad refused to wear the headset and therefore had no idea what was going on during the tour.  Again, his response to the outing -- "this is bullshit!" 

After several more examples of Dad's infamous responses, we could barely breathe, let alone talk.  I had stomach pain and tears were rolling down my face.   As we said our goodbyes, I told my brother that I would "tweet" his guitars and we laughed again. 

Not seconds after I hung up the phone, a huge clap of thunder shook the house.  The dogs went ballistic and I said out loud, "Wow, that was a big loud burst."  Then I thought or may be it's Dad. He's up there eavesdropping on our conversation and this is his way of saying, "bullshit!"  "Nah", I said to myself, "you don't talk like that in heaven!"  No, it is probably mom and Dad up there laughing along with my brother and I.  Silly thoughts.  It did make me stop and think though that laughter has always been a healing process and a source of strength for my family.  My brother feels like crap, his beloved boat has left the harbor, but he can still laugh.  And, laughter, they say, is the best medicine of all!

It's a Girl!

Sometimes the smallest thing can bring me to tears.  Like rummaging through boxes of stuff that have long laid untouched and finding an old piece of cloth from 1975.  This isn't any old cloth though.  It was the makeshift banner, a sort of neighborhood birth announcement, my parents created when I was pregnant with my first child, my daughter.

My first pregnancy was a big deal for my parents, as this was also their first grandchild.  They were quite anxious to be grandparents and they transferred their anxiety to their friends and neighbors.  They, as well as the people they knew, grew more anxious as my due date came and went, subsequently resulting in five additional weeks of waiting!

But back to the banner. 

Since everyone was on pins and needles waiting for the big day, my mom and Dad made a banner out of muslin fabric.  They painted huge letters "IT'S A" on one line,  "BOY" on another line and the final line read "GIRL."  The concept was to cut GIRL off if the baby was a boy or to pin the line that read "GIRL" over the word "BOY" if the baby was female.  They made holes in the banner, in order to put rope through it and hoist it up on their flagpole in the front yard.  Every morning the neighbors looked out to see if the flag had been raised announcing that the stork had arrived during the night.

As I opened the box and unfolded the muslin cloth, I could not contain myself.  I burst into tears.  I really had no idea that this piece of family history had been saved.  The banner was stained and crumpled from age, as it too will soon celebrate its 34th birthday.  It still had the pins in it that my mother used to conceal the word BOY, so that it read in big bold letters, IT'S A GIRL!

I was overwhelmed with emotion and sobbed uncontrollably.  RJ rushed to my side and I couldn't get the words out to let him know I was okay.  Finally I just handed him the banner and he knew, hugging me for the ten minutes it took me to regain my composure.  I didn't stay composed for very long though as all those memories of my daughter's birth came flooding back. 

My daughter arrived in August of 1975.  Everyone was in the throes of summer and it was hot.  I remember my mother arriving at the hospital in a heavy red plaid winter coat belted at the waist.  My father, who had never been physically present for the birth of his kids, was a nervous wreck waiting for the birth of his grandchild.  As I labored, I remember catching glimpses of him walking up and down the corridor, a nurse walking on each side of him for support.  One nurse was carrying an emesis basin and my father's face was VERY pale.  This was a man who fought in three wars, but folded under the pressure of a woman in labor!

Hours passed and still no baby.  Finally after thirty-six hours of labor, they called in a specialist who performed an emergency C-section.  I remember the procedure vividly, but shortly after it was all over, the exhaustion set in and I fell off to sleep. 

I woke up that evening in my room.  I have no recollection of how I got there and I had yet to hold my daughter, as she had been whisked off after the birth.  A nurse told me that everything was fine and that they would bring my baby in now that I was awake.  It was such a sweet moment holding her for the first time.  She was so perfect. 

I later learned that after the surgery, my daughter had been brought upstairs after eliminating some initial concern that she had complications from the birth.  Somewhere in all of my photos, I have a picture of my mom seeing her granddaughter for the first time.  The nurse wheeled her up in her bassinet and my mother, standing there in her red plaid winter coat, put her hands over her face and cried, "it's a boy!"  My husband and father just stood there looking baffled as the nurse said, "Grandma, I think you better take another look!"  She did indeed take a second look.  "Oh, it's a girl", she said. 

As soon as my folks arrived back at their house, they grabbed the banner and headed straight for the flagpole.  Neither one of them could get the rope threaded through the holes properly and gave up.  Using clothespins, they attached the banner to one of the bushes in their front yard.  They too were exhausted and took a long nap to regain their senses. 

My mother and I laughed every time we looked back on that day.  She, wearing her heavy, red plaid winter coat in 100 degree temperature, and my Dad, the tough Marine, getting even more medical attention than the mama in labor.  I so wanted to pick up the phone to call her, to tell her that I found the banner and we could have a hearty laugh all over again. 

I tried to clean the banner but it began to disintegrate so I opted to just leave it as is.  I carefully wrapped it in tissue paper and gently placed it in a photo box, as if it was the Shroud of Turin!  Someday I will add the photos taken that day and a copy of this story to the box.  Hopefully anyone who opens the box in years to come will smile (or laugh) as they run their hand over the banner while gazing at the photo of my mom in her red plaid winter coat!