So for all intents and purposes, I didn't have a father. I didn't talk about it. He didn't exist. Or maybe he existed in another universe. I didn't really think about it. My hand has gangrene? Cut it off. Suck it up. Move on.
Then he got cancer.
My mother took him in.
The woman with whom he had taken up in Switzerland apparently had killed herself a ways back. The rest of his family had passed away.
And so began another colorful chapter in a novel that I had put down twenty years before and had never planned to pick up again.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
One Man's Trash is Another Man's Treasure
So it’s clear my blogging days are numbered. I was beginning to bore even myself. But I have had some earnest encouragement to at least finish the story I’ve begun about my father. So, Gentle Reader(s), I continue.
Where did I leave off? Third grade. Right. I joined the swim team. I was under the tutelage of the assistant coach, whose name I can’t quite conjure. I went to night practice M,W, and F and swam with the other little lemmings. I wasn’t a standout, by any stretch. My best stroke was the breaststroke and I possibly made an A time by the time I turned 12. I was endlessly razzed about the clearly defined bounce in my freestyle.
My father came to visit some time before that, I’m thinking 5th grade or so. I was very excited to finally meet him -- really for the first time.
Talk about being crushed. Without going into details that might embarrass the rest of my family, let me just say that I was in complete and utter shock that this person was my father. I wasn’t old enough to understand his disease, but it was clear to me after the dust cleared that a father he would not be. He was, however, lucid enough to focus on the blue ribbons hanging in my room and, perhaps as a reward, he handed me a gold and amethyst ring off his hand that I do remember wearing proudly to school on a chain around my neck after he had left.
He soon called to say he had made a mistake and needed to have the ring back.
Meanwhile, around 6th grade I decided to start swimming in the morning. Kim, the head coach, would be my new coach. I didn’t know him well, but he was a charming, muscular, and handsome-by-any-standard 24-year-old recent MIT graduate with a moody disposition and a wicked passion for swimming. He drove an old old turquoise blue VW bug that shifted to the side a bit and was a mainstay in that Y parking lot. Let’s just say that you could hear Kim’s car coming from a few blocks away.
The YMCA was a 10-minute walk from my house (if I cut through a couple of yards through to Massasoit Street) and I didn’t want to be late. I set my alarm for 4:18 AM. I remember arriving the first day a little early. Helen Heminger, a 16 year old, walked into the locker room, took one look at me, and exclaimed huffily, “I can’t believe your mother is making you come to morning practice!” I was wounded but not deterred. I joined lane 1.
Over the next two years or so, I worked my way through the lanes. Kim was the kind of coach who ruled not just me, but every person in every lane. Kirsten, go first. Kirsten, your time was 1:20, do a 1:18 this time. Kirsten, move to lane 4 from now on. And so on and so forth until I was in lane 6. By the time I was 14, the bounce in my freestyle had been eradicated and I was leading the lane when we did 500s. I had found my groove and Kim had taken notice of me. He asked me to do double practices and I felt proud to comply.
Kim was the best coach I have ever had. (And I have had Olympic swimming and rowing coaches since…) He had a way of motivating each and every swimmer, no matter what level. I have to say I felt singled-out. And I was. I wasn’t necessarily his favorite, but he expected more of me, in every way.
He expected me to get As in school. He expected me to excel at every practice. He expected me to show up sick. He called me at my house when I didn’t show to one of those 9 practices per week. When I took a morning off to mourn the sudden death of my beloved rat, Templeton, he scoffed. Yes, I was completely intimidated and under his spell.
But for someone without a father, this worked. No matter how tough the love, I felt special and I strove to please him. When I cut 20 seconds off my 400 m free time, he immediately got out the junior national cuts and exclaimed, “only 30 more seconds to junior olympics!” I didn't think I could make the cuts, but I did. I always accomplished more than I thought I could with Kim pushing me. He did mention the Olympics a couple of times, but, alas, it wasn’t to be. It felt great to know he thought I had that kind of potential.
I wish every kid could have a Kim in his or her life.
Where did I leave off? Third grade. Right. I joined the swim team. I was under the tutelage of the assistant coach, whose name I can’t quite conjure. I went to night practice M,W, and F and swam with the other little lemmings. I wasn’t a standout, by any stretch. My best stroke was the breaststroke and I possibly made an A time by the time I turned 12. I was endlessly razzed about the clearly defined bounce in my freestyle.
My father came to visit some time before that, I’m thinking 5th grade or so. I was very excited to finally meet him -- really for the first time.
Talk about being crushed. Without going into details that might embarrass the rest of my family, let me just say that I was in complete and utter shock that this person was my father. I wasn’t old enough to understand his disease, but it was clear to me after the dust cleared that a father he would not be. He was, however, lucid enough to focus on the blue ribbons hanging in my room and, perhaps as a reward, he handed me a gold and amethyst ring off his hand that I do remember wearing proudly to school on a chain around my neck after he had left.
He soon called to say he had made a mistake and needed to have the ring back.
Meanwhile, around 6th grade I decided to start swimming in the morning. Kim, the head coach, would be my new coach. I didn’t know him well, but he was a charming, muscular, and handsome-by-any-standard 24-year-old recent MIT graduate with a moody disposition and a wicked passion for swimming. He drove an old old turquoise blue VW bug that shifted to the side a bit and was a mainstay in that Y parking lot. Let’s just say that you could hear Kim’s car coming from a few blocks away.
The YMCA was a 10-minute walk from my house (if I cut through a couple of yards through to Massasoit Street) and I didn’t want to be late. I set my alarm for 4:18 AM. I remember arriving the first day a little early. Helen Heminger, a 16 year old, walked into the locker room, took one look at me, and exclaimed huffily, “I can’t believe your mother is making you come to morning practice!” I was wounded but not deterred. I joined lane 1.
Over the next two years or so, I worked my way through the lanes. Kim was the kind of coach who ruled not just me, but every person in every lane. Kirsten, go first. Kirsten, your time was 1:20, do a 1:18 this time. Kirsten, move to lane 4 from now on. And so on and so forth until I was in lane 6. By the time I was 14, the bounce in my freestyle had been eradicated and I was leading the lane when we did 500s. I had found my groove and Kim had taken notice of me. He asked me to do double practices and I felt proud to comply.
Kim was the best coach I have ever had. (And I have had Olympic swimming and rowing coaches since…) He had a way of motivating each and every swimmer, no matter what level. I have to say I felt singled-out. And I was. I wasn’t necessarily his favorite, but he expected more of me, in every way.
He expected me to get As in school. He expected me to excel at every practice. He expected me to show up sick. He called me at my house when I didn’t show to one of those 9 practices per week. When I took a morning off to mourn the sudden death of my beloved rat, Templeton, he scoffed. Yes, I was completely intimidated and under his spell.
But for someone without a father, this worked. No matter how tough the love, I felt special and I strove to please him. When I cut 20 seconds off my 400 m free time, he immediately got out the junior national cuts and exclaimed, “only 30 more seconds to junior olympics!” I didn't think I could make the cuts, but I did. I always accomplished more than I thought I could with Kim pushing me. He did mention the Olympics a couple of times, but, alas, it wasn’t to be. It felt great to know he thought I had that kind of potential.
I wish every kid could have a Kim in his or her life.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Company You Keep
I must have been feeling confident, or maybe brave, that first day, as I screwed the little dangle earrings that my sister had given me onto my ears for the first time.
I was welcomed warmly by the other third graders. I made friends with Kristin, Hazzy, and Emily that day, friendships that would be long-lasting.
Kristin was one of three sisters. Her dad worked for Clarke School for the Deaf and they lived in a beautiful old home owned by the school. I spent many afternoons baking in her Easy Bake oven and throwing the baseball with her and Hazzy. Her mom was from the South and she ran a tight ship. They had a strict set of rules at home, including "black marks" for any transgressions. Kristin eventually followed her roots and attended Wake Forest.
Hazzard was the son of a poet father and a musician mother. His mother came to school in 5th grade and taught us to play the bells. Hazzy played the cello and one day played the theme to Jaws for show and tell. I was puzzled by the fact that this family did not own a television. He thought our old Saab was really cool and one day surprised me by stopping by to see the car and walk me to school. He went to Yale.
Emily was the Jeff to my Mutt. She was a petite, sweet and smart girl who giggled at my every joke. She was the one who took me to free swim at the YMCA on Massasoit Street and showed me her butterfly stroke. I imagine my eyes opened wide as I watched her dive down into the water and emerge like a bird, over and over again. Her mom had gone to Smith and her dad was a famous sculptor and professor there. This was a home where I spent a lot of time and this was a family who expected their own to attend schools like Yale, Williams and Amherst.
Emily easily convinced me to try out for the swim team.
I was welcomed warmly by the other third graders. I made friends with Kristin, Hazzy, and Emily that day, friendships that would be long-lasting.
Kristin was one of three sisters. Her dad worked for Clarke School for the Deaf and they lived in a beautiful old home owned by the school. I spent many afternoons baking in her Easy Bake oven and throwing the baseball with her and Hazzy. Her mom was from the South and she ran a tight ship. They had a strict set of rules at home, including "black marks" for any transgressions. Kristin eventually followed her roots and attended Wake Forest.
Hazzard was the son of a poet father and a musician mother. His mother came to school in 5th grade and taught us to play the bells. Hazzy played the cello and one day played the theme to Jaws for show and tell. I was puzzled by the fact that this family did not own a television. He thought our old Saab was really cool and one day surprised me by stopping by to see the car and walk me to school. He went to Yale.
Emily was the Jeff to my Mutt. She was a petite, sweet and smart girl who giggled at my every joke. She was the one who took me to free swim at the YMCA on Massasoit Street and showed me her butterfly stroke. I imagine my eyes opened wide as I watched her dive down into the water and emerge like a bird, over and over again. Her mom had gone to Smith and her dad was a famous sculptor and professor there. This was a home where I spent a lot of time and this was a family who expected their own to attend schools like Yale, Williams and Amherst.
Emily easily convinced me to try out for the swim team.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Northampton
OK, so my memory has been a little sketchy up until now. Let me apologize. I will try to improve. This next vision is etched in stone: our family, plus Rima and our cat, Mephistopheles, had been driving for about five hours, from New York state to Massachusetts. (I must confess that I have somehow forgotten Mephy in my prior conveyances. Again, my apologies, for he has been with us for longer than even Rima has.) My brother, Lars, and I were so excited about what was to come that we were commenting on everything new we that we saw as we headed down Main Street past Smith College. A Ped Xing sign caught our eye. That, for some reason, was the funniest thing -- like when you're in a new country or beamed onto a new planet and things look a bit queer. We probably traded jokes until we soon rolled up to the new house, the first house my mom purchased by herself -- on Arlington Street.
It was a slate blue colonial with 2 large blue Spruces in the front. It had a porch that wrapped around from the front to the side, with plain pillars spaced in between and arborvitaes along the sides.
All I remember about my room was that it had one wall with wallpaper, in a girly floral, reminiscent of Marimekko. The other walls were white, and all the woodwork was painted bubblegum pink. This was the reason my mom picked the room for me, that pink. And I had a walk-in closet. Heaven.
My mom made a promise to us that day: we will be staying put for five years. I remember thinking, five years?
The first day of school was the next day. You know when a certain smell resonates? I can still smell that brand new fresh start smell wafting in the open windows of my own new perfect room. That smell of excitement and a new beginning.
It was a slate blue colonial with 2 large blue Spruces in the front. It had a porch that wrapped around from the front to the side, with plain pillars spaced in between and arborvitaes along the sides.
All I remember about my room was that it had one wall with wallpaper, in a girly floral, reminiscent of Marimekko. The other walls were white, and all the woodwork was painted bubblegum pink. This was the reason my mom picked the room for me, that pink. And I had a walk-in closet. Heaven.
My mom made a promise to us that day: we will be staying put for five years. I remember thinking, five years?
The first day of school was the next day. You know when a certain smell resonates? I can still smell that brand new fresh start smell wafting in the open windows of my own new perfect room. That smell of excitement and a new beginning.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Holiday Hill Camp
So I had just turned 8 when I went to my first sleepaway camp. Can you spot me in the first row? Hint: culottes and knee socks were all the rage. My sister is in the very top row on the right, but is hard to see due to a mysterious stain on the old photo.
The camp was run by two older women. I still have the sterling silver bracelet made from small circles linked together to make a chain. One of the owners hand-made them and gave them to the new campers. There may have been charms that were added subsequently but this was my only year here.
My mom had ironed all the little name tags in my clothes. We lived in little cabins with cots -- eight girls and their counselor.
Luckily my big sister was a counselor so I wasn't homesick. When I went up to her cabin, her teenage campers fawned over me.
I had a lot of firsts that summer: horseback riding, riflery, archery, sailing, swimming, and skinny-dipping. I mastered the doggie paddle, but I'm not sure if I was actually swimming.
What I didn't know then is that soon my life would take a turn. With our impending surprise move, seminal figures would enter my life....and learning to swim, as it were, would come in handy.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Utica
I stood at the head of the 2nd grade class as the teacher introduced me as the new girl. That city school had a different feel and I never quite felt comfortable there. I remember my 3-ring binder being full of narrowly-lined white paper and my pencils sharpened and ready. I am trying to remember what we studied that year but all I can picture are brightly colored macaroni Christmas ornaments.
We rented a house near the school, on Kenyon Court, so I could walk there and home. My brother and I had baby sitters and played after school with the neighborhood kids. We built elaborate obstacle courses in the muddy back yard. The Utica Club beer factory was just down the street, and we would sometimes head down there on a Saturday for one of their regular tours to give my mom a break. My mom recently told me that the family next door were Born Again and she became alarmed when I began drawing pictures of God in my free time.
For fun our family would go skiing at Snow Ridge. The others had learned to ski in Switzerland and I was just trying to keep up, as usual. I would bomb down the slopes hoping not to fall. I remember eating our home-made peanut butter sandwiches and peeling oranges in the lodge. One day I proudly announced that it was my mom's birthday and she was 40. She was not happy with me.
My sister was a counselor and avid horsewoman at Holiday Hill camp in Craftsbury Commons, Vermont. After 2nd grade I got to accompany her to camp for part of the summer while my brother went to Boy Scout camp. That summer we were all away, my mom got a new job far away in Northampton, Massachusetts and we moved so suddenly and quickly after camp that I never said goodbye to my best friend.
We rented a house near the school, on Kenyon Court, so I could walk there and home. My brother and I had baby sitters and played after school with the neighborhood kids. We built elaborate obstacle courses in the muddy back yard. The Utica Club beer factory was just down the street, and we would sometimes head down there on a Saturday for one of their regular tours to give my mom a break. My mom recently told me that the family next door were Born Again and she became alarmed when I began drawing pictures of God in my free time.
For fun our family would go skiing at Snow Ridge. The others had learned to ski in Switzerland and I was just trying to keep up, as usual. I would bomb down the slopes hoping not to fall. I remember eating our home-made peanut butter sandwiches and peeling oranges in the lodge. One day I proudly announced that it was my mom's birthday and she was 40. She was not happy with me.
My sister was a counselor and avid horsewoman at Holiday Hill camp in Craftsbury Commons, Vermont. After 2nd grade I got to accompany her to camp for part of the summer while my brother went to Boy Scout camp. That summer we were all away, my mom got a new job far away in Northampton, Massachusetts and we moved so suddenly and quickly after camp that I never said goodbye to my best friend.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Netta's House
We had some pretty colorful friends in upstate New York: poets, writers, and intellectuals, even a couple listed in the New York Social Register -- all enjoying a simpler small-town existence, with sunny summers, rich falls, and thigh-high winters.
My mom and her twin sisters had long left the Mormon church. She tried to get us to go to the Unitarian church in town, as unitarianism was becoming popular as kind of a catch-all faith. Being so young, I went along with the Sunday School thing, but my brother was instinctively opposed to the idea and was not afraid to voice this. One time our minister was caught streaking through town and arrested. This absurd hypocrisy effectively proved our case and she finally threw up her hands about church.
Weekends were often spent with our mom's friends. She had met a woman named Netta who lived in a neighboring town. Netta was the largest woman I had ever seen and probably weighed over 300 pounds. We all loved her. She lived in a capacious old Victorian home that had many interesting things in it, not the least of which was one of those contraptions that had a band which went around your waist or hips and then supposedly vibrated the fat off. That was our first stop when we went to Netta's. We would spend hours down at the creek catching crayfish.
Netta's boyfriend was named Mead, and he was probably a third of her size. Netta's husband had died and she had sued the negligent doctor, winning a huge settlement. She had a rich life in many ways, but always wanted to lose weight. One time my sister went downstairs in the middle of the night to get a drink of water and saw Netta eating a stick of butter in front of the refrigerator.
We would sometimes sleep over at Netta's...while the parents had wild late-night poker games with drinks and bags of real money by their sides. There was something mysterious and intriguing about those poker games and I always wished I was old enough to join in.
This bohemian country life didn't last long, as we soon made our next move into the big city of Utica.
My mom and her twin sisters had long left the Mormon church. She tried to get us to go to the Unitarian church in town, as unitarianism was becoming popular as kind of a catch-all faith. Being so young, I went along with the Sunday School thing, but my brother was instinctively opposed to the idea and was not afraid to voice this. One time our minister was caught streaking through town and arrested. This absurd hypocrisy effectively proved our case and she finally threw up her hands about church.
Weekends were often spent with our mom's friends. She had met a woman named Netta who lived in a neighboring town. Netta was the largest woman I had ever seen and probably weighed over 300 pounds. We all loved her. She lived in a capacious old Victorian home that had many interesting things in it, not the least of which was one of those contraptions that had a band which went around your waist or hips and then supposedly vibrated the fat off. That was our first stop when we went to Netta's. We would spend hours down at the creek catching crayfish.
Netta's boyfriend was named Mead, and he was probably a third of her size. Netta's husband had died and she had sued the negligent doctor, winning a huge settlement. She had a rich life in many ways, but always wanted to lose weight. One time my sister went downstairs in the middle of the night to get a drink of water and saw Netta eating a stick of butter in front of the refrigerator.
We would sometimes sleep over at Netta's...while the parents had wild late-night poker games with drinks and bags of real money by their sides. There was something mysterious and intriguing about those poker games and I always wished I was old enough to join in.
This bohemian country life didn't last long, as we soon made our next move into the big city of Utica.
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