A Prayer for Owen Meany

I’m reading A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving), which was made into the movie Simon Birch. Katie loved that movie, and I'm pretty sure she read the book. The two are quite different in some significant ways, but have the same spirit and mood. (By the way, Wikipedia reports that “The movie does not share the book’s title at Irving’s request; he did not believe that this novel could successfully be made into a film. The name “Simon Birch” was suggested by him to replace that of Owen Meany.”)

So last night at 30,000 feet, on my way home, finally, on a three-hours-delayed flight from Cincinnati, I read this:

“When someone you love dies, and you’re not expecting it, you don’t lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time...Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there’s a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she’s gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.”

And suddenly I’m sobbing. Fortunately most of the other passengers had bailed after the second flight delay, so the cabin was mostly empty, and with all the lights off I didn’t have to deal with anyone trying to be solicitous.

It’s not that I’m embarrassed—if I were, I wouldn’t be writing this—but that such interactions always make me feel badly for the person who asked.

I had been in Cinci to give three presentations at a user group. My Windows wallpaper these days includes the following, because I like to look at it:

At the meeting, I messed up while connecting to the projector and showed my desktop briefly; afterward, a lady came up and asked me if that had been my daughter, and what happened.

So I got to ruin her day. Yeah, she asked, but I still feel bad about it. The same thing happens whenever someone asks if we have any kids.

Sure wish I could see a way around this.

Time Flies

...and the weather turns, and I see it's been a month since I posted. We're in the fall blahs: this used to be an exciting time, with back to school and back to real life: new classes, new teachers, new opportunities. Now, not so much.

I'm sitting at a friend's beach house in Nags Head overlooking the ocean as I write this. It's a nice quiet place to get away for a few days, in the off-season. Gorgeous and the ocean sound is a balm.

We'll drive home tomorrow, planning to arrive in time for the presidential debate. Something else Katie would have loved: debating and politics, together! Plus she could have voted this time 'round. And I know she would have been exhorting her friends and acquaintances to vote—even those who were going to vote the "wrong" way. Probably would have convinced a bunch of 'em, too...

More Dad-Trolling

I guess I started Dad-Trolling Katie when she was pretty small.

Evidence: I remember the first time we went to a pet store and I showed her the hamsters. She didn't believe me: she was firmly convinced that "hamsters" were something I'd made up. I finally got a clerk's attention and said, "Tell her what kind of animal that is"; he gave me an incredulous look and said, "It's a hamster!"

Much later, I tried to convince her that molasses wasn't vegetarian—since, obviously, it's made from the rear ends of moles. Nope, she didn't buy that, but she did try it on a few of her friends.

I might have been guilty of this on occasion...

But Katie never fell for it. Well, probably once or twice when she was little, but by the time it mattered, she was far too wily. She did enjoy my attempts, however, and would have liked this one.

From SMBC, which is usually good and frequently great.

Back To School

Tonight I was sitting in a Thai restaurant waiting for takeout, and a family with three little girls was eating nearby. The father had apparently spent time in Thailand, and was introducing them to the cuisine for the first time.

During the wait, I enjoyed hearing the girls asking questions and exclaiming over the food. At one point I heard, "This is the best chicken ever!" and the mom started laughing; when asked why, she explained that it was calamari, not chicken. Which the girls didn't freak out about.

Reminded me of a little girl I used to know who, when they were asked to do the "About Me" thing in first grade, put "Tom Kha Gai*" instead of "pizza" or "spagety" or "hambergers" for her favorite food. And (until she became vegetarian), Katie would at least try anything we offered her.

And it was sixteen years ago this week that we walked her to the bus stop for kindergarten. Anita was snapping pictures, I was running the obligatory video camera (Hi-8—state of the art!). After the hugs and kisses, we watched her little head travel slowly to the back of the bus, then return all the way to the front. The driver opened the door and a somewhat bewildered Katie explained that there were no available seats!

I forget what we did about it; I assume we jumped in the car and drove her that day. I know Anita talked to the school about getting a bigger bus, and they did. Our stop wasn't the last on the bus run, so I'm sure we weren't the only ones!

Gosh, that was a long time ago...

* Tom Kha Gai is a Thai soup made with chicken broth, coconut milk, galanga (aka "galangal", a ginger-like root), cilantro, lemon grass, straw mushrooms, kaffir lime leaves, and chicken. Pure comfort food, especially with some rice thrown in! (Linguistic note: Tom = boiled, thus soup; Kha = galanga; Gai = chicken)

Hate the disease, love the victim

I wrote before about my friend, whose son is going through travails somewhat akin to Kt’s. He and his wife are of course continuing to deal with their son’s illness. Recently they’ve been communicating with the school about the approaching school year. One teacher in particular has always been somewhat less than understanding, and recently emailed, in part:

 >I know he has been a handful.

My friend responded with the following:

We agree with you that his illness is indeed a handful. In fact, his illness is life threatening! However, he is not a handful. He is actually one of the most well-meaning and courageous individuals that we know. In the face of absolute terror and panic attacks he works so hard to stay safe, composed, and rational. When the illness overtakes him and he gets knocked down he gets back up. We are so proud of him and could share more examples, not just from us as parents but from his friends all along the way. This perspective, and the distinction between him and the illness, is critical in terms of all of us choosing words and actions that help him.

I immediately wrote back, “Good point”; after rereading, I was compelled to update that to  “AWESOME point”.

I’m not sure I can say anything that will add more to his powerful words, except to relate it back to my earlier treatise: if his son had cancer, would a teacher even consider saying that the boy “has been a handful”?

Aurora Errata

It now appears that when the Aurora shooter's mother said "You have the right person" she was responding to, "Are you the mother of x?" and not "Is x likely to have shot up a movie theatre?" (P.S. I'm not willing to call him "the accused shooter": he said he did it, so he's the shooter until and unless proven otherwise. Political correctness only makes sense to a point.)

In retrospect, this seems much more plausible than the way it was reported. But my point from the previous post remains: too many folks will—with or without this utterance—think the parents "should have done something".

It also reminds me that for every single case where I've had first-hand knowledge of the facts of a newspaper story, the article was incorrect about at least one significant, objective fact. In one case, I remember them getting the defendant's name and age wrong; in another, they listed someone's work address as their home address. Not that I think any of the reporters involved were deliberately lying—the exigencies of publishing a daily paper mean that such fact-checking is too often overlooked (especially as the newspapers die a slow death).

Just a reminder of what we know: Just 'cause it's in the paper doesn't mean it's true.