What it is to be a man

There is an ideal in America of what it means to be a man. It means being tall, good-looking, athletic, “tough,” not easily hurt, etc. This is not what it means to be a man.

My last entry in here was about the death of my grandfather, who probably fit into most of those categories. But my grandfather wasn’t half the man my father is, who does not fit the stereotypical image. My dad is tall—six foot. But he’s been rail thin his entire life, always with a pair of coke bottle glasses, and never the man you would bet on in a fight.

But you’d never have the opportunity to bet against him, because my dad would never be in a fight. My dad is the gentlest, kindest, most compassionate, strongest man I know. He has more character than anybody I’ve ever met, and he loves his children more than he loves himself. Since my grandpa’s death, I’ve been thinking about my mom, and how she never had much of a father, which makes me think about my dad, and how fortunate I am to have him.

I’ve also figured out a perfect reply for the next time someone asks me why I’m still single—I haven’t met anyone yet who can measure up to my dad. They say girls marry their fathers; my mom married someone who was everything her father never was. Because she did, I would be incredibly lucky if I were to marry someone like my father.

Nothing

My grandpa died today. I'm writing this because I feel like something such as one's grandpa dying should be an important life event, one that should make me feel like writing in my blog. It does, but not because I'm grieving. It's sad that he died, but I can't say I'm mourning. Honestly, I'm doing nothing, feeling nothing.

And that's why I'm writing. Because sadder to me than his death is the fact that his passing really has no emotional effect on his grandchildren. Why? Because we never really knew him. I grew up less than 10 miles from him, and I've maybe seen the man a dozen times in my whole life. I think we got Christmas presents from him once or twice. He didn't come to my high school or college graduation, or any of my brothers' or sister's graduations. He also missed my brother's wedding, so it's not like I'm saddened by the fact that he won't see me get married--he probably wouldn't have anyway.

My grandpa left my grandma for another woman when my mom was four. My grandma says my mom doesn't even remember when he lived with them. After he left, he barely spent any time with my mom and uncle, but lavished attention and gifts on the other woman's children. When I was born, my mom told my dad not to bother calling my grandpa to let him know, because he'd barely acknowledged the birth of my older sister. A few years later, my mom saw him and he was talking excitedly about how his third wife's daughter was about to have a baby and about the rocking chair he was planning to give her. I can't even imagine how much that hurt her. I have in my apartment right now a dresser that my mom gave me; she made me promise her that if I ever didn't want it anymore I had to give it back to her, not get rid of it. My grandpa made it for her, and it was basically one of the few nice things he'd ever done for her.

I don't know yet when the funeral is, but I won't be driving or flying the 500 miles it would take to get there. I hold no ill-will to the man. He never did anything hurtful to me. He just never did anything. And that is what's sad. To have lived a life that leaves no impression, no feeling on those you should be closest to--that's a true tragedy.

Blogger hates me, Blogger hates me not...

Blogger and I are not on the best of terms. In fact, we haven't been talking for a few days. I'm not sure what I did to Blogger, but it must have been something pretty bad...

Randi and I finally found a house that we love, that's in a great neighborhood (we met our neighbors already and they're fantastic!), that has affordable rent, and that didn't get swiped away by someone else before we could get it (like the one on Snowbird Lane, with the perfect street name). It all became official Thursday night when we made the deposit.

The process of getting the house had been underway for about a week. We found it because it was next door to another house we went to look at last Sunday. Tuesday, we got the key and took a look inside. Wednesday we begged our apartment complex to let us out of our lease three weeks earlier so we didn't lose it, since we'd already lost three others, then dropped off our rental application. Thursday we found out we had it, paid the deposit, and went by the house again to take pics.

During this whole process, I hadn't posted anything about the house, hadn't emailed any of my friends, for fear of jinxing us. So once it was certain, I couldn't wait to announce the news here. I spent a good 45 minutes writing of our travails to find a house, then adding a picture, and linking to the mini-photo album Randi has online.

It was then that I made my crucial mistake. I hit post. The screen goes white. I wait, hoping Blogger will recover. Nope. I hit the back button, hoping my words will still be there. Nope. I go to my blog, because sometimes it acts like it hasn't posted but it has. Nothing. I curse at Blogger. Blogger apparently didn't like that, because when I try to log back in and re-create my masterpiece, it won't let me. I try again at intervals throughout the night, but with no hope. So I stopped speaking to Blogger.

We've had the weekend apart now, and I'm hoping we can make amends. So I'm trying this again-- but this time I will copy and paste the text to be safe! Below, if Blogger has forgiven me, is a photo of the house, and you can see the inside and backyard here.


Me with Winnie at our front door!

Life in the balance

The last three graf's in an Associated Press story on Pope John Paul II's ailing condition:

"Hospitalized twice last month following two breathing crises, and fitted with a breathing tube and a feeding tube, John Paul has become a picture of suffering.
"His 26-year papacy has been marked by its call to value the aged and to respect the sick, subjects the pope has turned to as he battles Parkinson’s disease and crippling knee and hip ailments.
"It is not clear who would be empowered to make medical decisions for an unconscious pope. The Vatican has officially declined to comment whether John Paul has left written instructions."

For his sake, I hope he left instructions. Otherwise, when the time comes we may watch, God forbid, a sea of religious right zealots protest the removal of his feeding tube or other artificial means of supporting life, while the Pope waits to go on to his creator.

Those who cannot acknowledge the right to die, babbling nonsense about creating a "culture of life," don't know much about what life really is. Life is being able to make choices--including choices about the kind of life one would or would not want to live. Lying in a hospital bed with no conscious awareness is not life; cruelly, it is not death either.

We can "value the aged" and "respect the sick" not just by caring for them when they are weak, but also by honoring even their most difficult wishes--and sometimes that means letting go.

I know it is hard to say goodbye to those we love. But when my time comes, if you really love me, let me go.