FAMILYSPEAK

                My younger daughter struggled to come up with a metaphor for a potentially draining, suck-the-air-from-the-room experience.  “I know,” she said at last.  “It would be like traveling through Europe with Joanie!”  She paused, then said, “Nobody outside our family would know what that meant, would they?”

                Not if they were lucky.  Joanie, a family friend, has long resisted advice to Switch To Decaf.  She’s a Type A plus plus plus perfectionist who would color-code our suitcases and have them all facing in the same direction.  She doesn’t get jet lag, she gives it.  And my daughter didn’t have to say anything else.

                Families communicate in a sort of shorthand, or “short-speak.”  Made of experience and legend, tall tales and short nights, it’s a language within a language.  I call it Familyspeak, and no two Familyspeaks are alike.

                                                                 Ect.! Ect.!

                Sometimes Familyspeak follows us from childhood.  My oldest daughter read early, earlier than she could hear some of the words she was reading.  She read the term “Etc. Etc.,” and pronounced it “Ect Ect.”  So that’s how we say it at our house.  Puzzled outsiders may correct us, but we sail right on.

                My younger sister brought home a crayoned portrait of the First Thanksgiving from kindergarten.  She announced confidently that these were the “Pilgrins,” and they’ve been “Pilgrins” in our family ever since.  Hey, if you survived that first winter, wouldn’t you be grinning?

                Landmarks also lend themselves to Familyspeak.  For years, Dave, the girls and I traveled to Grandma’s house over the river, through the woods and down a side road dubbed “Carl and Carol’s road.”  “Carl” and “Carol” had a nice ranch house boasting a double garage, with “Carl” over one bay and “Carol” over the other.  They also had a shrine to some apparition of the Virgin Mary, with a statue of Our Lady and a bunch of kneeling children.  Worth noting: we never met either Carl or Carol.  I think I may have seen Carl one time, hosing down the statues, but we were going by too fast to wave.  When Carl and Carol sold out and a new family moved in, the shrine came down and the names came off the garage.  But our family continues to call it “Carl and Carol’s road,” which is a real perk when we’re trying to give someone directions.

                Familyspeak is nicknames, memories, instant recognition.  When my nephew was 7 or 8, he and my husband Dave watched “The Longest Day” one Memorial Day weekend.  Dave explained D-Day to him as my sister and I prepared the barbecue.  We were chopping vegetables when my nephew ran into the kitchen shouting, “Mom! There are ‘nums’ on the beach!”  “Nums on the beach” has followed him the rest of his life.  So far.

                If you have to explain it to an outsider, it’s Familyspeak

                                                       Bernardston

                Familyspeak is one word that can conjure up a thousand images.  For us, the premier example of Familyspeak is one word: Bernardston.

                Back when we had more nerve than sense, we packed up the kids and took an aging vehicle out to Western Mass for a children’s missionary convention.  We brought minimal money, expecting to be fed exotic foods as we learned of our work abroad.  Right town (after a three-hour drive), wrong weekend.   We hit a fast-food outlet and began to head home.  We proceeded to get lost and hit a traffic jam of people coming home from a balloon festival.  The car died on an interstate highway, and we and it got towed to Bernardston, a tiny town in Western Mass. 

                The tow truck brought Dave and the car, and the state police brought me and the girls to Bernardston.  It was probably a pretty nice town when everything was open and you had some means of escape. 

                On a Saturday afternoon in late October, it left almost everything to be desired.

                Whatever looked like a business was closed, except for the garage and an adjacent general store.  The girls and I fell on this like starving pilgrims – Light! Sound! Stuff! – while Dave dickered with the mechanic.

                It was clean, warm and safe.

                Four hours later…

                The glow had faded.  I had read every comic book on the rack, aloud, to my girls as we sat cross-legged on the scuffed wooden floor.  We scraped our pockets for enough coinage to buy snacks.  We took several short walks, shivering our way along the deserted main drag, scuffling through the leaves.  The library closed at 3 p.m.  A library would have made it bearable.

                Dave emerged with the grim news that our car wouldn’t be ready until Tuesday, if at all.  He was allowed one phone call, and he made it collect to our pastor.  That good man peeled himself away from his weekend guests, drove in the gathering darkness to a town he’d never been to, and loaded his car with Baileys.  Nobody talked on the way home.

                That was Bernardston.  At least for them.  I was the only one available to go and get the car on Tuesday, and the only person available to take me on the two-hour drive was my now ex-brother-in-law. If Dante’s Hell had a mobile home, this guy would be the drapes. 

In summation: more than the car broke down over Bernardston.  And when one of us says “Bernardston,” no explanation is needed.  Or wanted. 

                We can laugh about it now.  Sort of.

                                                            Words and pictures

                My father, who died in March, was a hoarder, an archivist, a maker of memories.  A professional photographer for many years and a gifted enthusiast before, he documented every possible moment, including a few that probably shouldn’t have been.  When he died, I was charged with copying old photos for cousins and posterity.  As I looked at black-and-white snapshots of “people and things that went before,” I felt humbled by the people I came from and grateful to him for this legacy.

                There were pictures – and there were words, 60 plus years of Familyspeak.  Ask me some time about “The Surprise Cabinet” or “The Moose Club Play.”  (Don’t ask.)  (Please ask.)

                And when we had our last conversation, I clutched his hand as though touch alone would bring him back.  The words came with effort, but I could see it all in his eyes, a lifetime of Familyspeak.  It was part of his legacy to us, and ours to him.

 It’s our words as well as our pictures that fill up our memory cards, and make us who we are.

More reflections on change and technology

Meet George Jetson, or "Oh Brave New World." A meditation on technology.


What I already miss: Five-and-dimes, old church hymns, band concerts on the green, neighborhood groceries, Salvation Army bands, greeting cards sent through the mail with stamps.

What I'm going to miss: The Post Office (how will we describe disgruntled employees who take out their former workplace?)

Newspapers, for obvious reasons and also how will kidnappers do ransom notes?

Photo albums (it's fun leafing through them)

Books (okay, I can give up hardcover encyclopedias, but who wants to read to a toddler off a Kindle?)

Land lines and phone booths (what are they going to do with those red ones in England? Huh?)

What I probably won't miss: video rental stores, standing in line (did you know you can even order movie tickets online? Probably), typewriters, any camera that isn't digital, fax machines (never got the hang of them when they were popular), VCR tapes (see above), doing the income tax manually (OK, Dave does our taxes, but it's rewarding to me not to see him suffer, thank you Turbo Tax.). I'm just sayin'

The non-dating game

Recently my grown daughter was discussing her weekend plans with me. "Why don't you ask Heather to go with you?" I said about one event.

Catie looked thoughtful. "Maybe. It depends on what Jason wants to do. They're a unit," she added helpfully, and escaped before I could riff on that. What were they, an item at a yard sale?
A storage stall?


I was amused when I heard a young male co-worker (back when I HAD co-workers) describing a disastrous weekend in the Big Apple. The topper? Seeing his girlfriend's car impounded. But his description of the ride home really sealed the deal for me. "On top of it all," he told an enthralled office, "I had to tell her I didn't see a future for us."

Say what?

That ain't no way to treat a lady.

This generation takes its love and commitment at one step removed. Maybe it's the result of the Age of Aquarius and our relationships -- they were so gloriously messy. We fought, we cried, we broke up, we brooded. We took out the razor and put it back again.

We didn't "talk it out." Most of the time he stopped calling -- and we dealt with it. We cried our eyes out, put on our threadbare bathrobes and ate our way through the crisis. Saved us the painful "face to face" and the result was the same. Eventually, we moved on.

But today's break-ups have to take place in real time, with catchphrases like "It's not you, it's me" and my personal favorite, "I'm at a place in my life." Really, who isn't?
Even this generation's dating is bloodless. They have a series of "levels" -- moving to the first level, moving to the next level, "seeing a future." I can envision these young couples with a mental checklist or, horrors, a real one.

And they still get hurt.

Perhaps we created this careful generation, we who howled our way through the 60s. Or perhaps time itself did it for them. If I'd had to live through Y2K and 9/11, maybe I'd be cautious too. The plate we handed them isn't very appetizing. Sure, we had the Cold War, but that was before computers. We had Vietnam, Selma and three assasinations -- but we still didn't call our relationships "relationships."

I went to a bridal shower this weekend. Yes, the young couple has already taken it through several "levels" -- dating, engagement, living together, house. They're matter-of-fact about already being in the house together and not taking their honeymoon till February. But when my niece talks about her fiance, there's a glow -- a subdued glow, but a glow. And that gives me hope for the whole shebang. Whatever they call it.

Opening windows: first published 1997

We used to joke that he was part French-Canadian and part Maytag.  At 75, my father had survived three prostate operations.  A lifetime of smoking had left him with only the barest touch of emphysema.  He still did all his own housework, and rarely took so much as an aspirin.
   Yet the rugged appliance was, at last, showing some signs of wear.  When the doctors told him he needed a cataract operation, he had nowhere to turn.  He needed someone to take him home, and all his potential drivers were too old to do it safely or too young to take time off work.  I spared him the humiliation of having to ask and volunteered to come up and spend a couple of days.
   It was bright and brisk when I arrived, seasonably cool for July.  Good, I thought as I greeted him.  We can talk about the weather -- that ought to use up 10 minutes.
   He had lived in our house for 50 years.  Every corner brimmed with a memory of childhood birthday parties, teenage sleepovers or my own children giggling over something.  He said I could sleep in my mother's old room.
   Except for giving away her clothes, he hadn't done anything in there --all the knickknacks and necessities of her last year of life sat untouched.  This needs to be dealt with, I thought as I stowed my stuff.  But what would he replace it with?  He was a little old to be accumulating souvenirs.
   I chauffeured him to the hospital and sat in the waiting room.  He came down with a patch over his eye.   He said it felt fine.  When I drove over a curb trying to get us home, he didn't say anything.  Even two years ago, it would have been fodder for a lecture.
   Back at the house, we tiptoed around each other.  I tried to tell him about my world, but found it almost too much effort to explain life in the 90s to this fiercely '50s man.  When we talked about issues I found his once-sharp mind wandered a little.  He wasn't up on the latest doings in Concord; he saw only a vague outline.
   But other conversations, long in the past, were what really blocked us from talking.  There were the years of "You can do better," "That dress makes you look fat," and "How could you have been so stupid?"  Words that wove themselves into the fabric of my life, as surely as my bedtime prayers.
   On the second day I drove him back to the hospital to have the patch removed.  When he came downstairs from the outpatient clinic, he got into the passenger seat as if by habit.  "Let's go out to lunch," he said.  "I don't want you cooking today."
   I demurred, but he insisted he could afford it.
   We ordered from the specials of the day and made what small talk we could.  When the food came, I dug in; my father seemed to have forgotten his was there.  "I'm thinking about giving up the house," he said abruptly.  "I need to  make some plans, for when I can't keep it up any more.  I don't know whether to go into a retirement home or a nursing home or what.  But we need to think ahead."
   No we don't I thought.  It's too soon since Mom.
   I put down my fork.  "You're doing fine," I said.  "You're going to be around for a good long time.  We don't need to worry about it now."
   He looked unconvinced, but he knew by now that it takes two to have a conversation.  "Anyway, I want you girls to have the house," he said as he picked up his fork.  "You can sell it, or one of you can live there and buy the other one out.  But it goes to you."
   "This is good pie," I said.
   On the third day the weather turned and we experienced summer again.  I woke to sunshine streaming through the window.  It was already hot, and before I started packing, I decided to get some air.  I moved the ancient window crank, but it didn't budge.  My father had sealed the window shut, to keep the heat in and the cold out.
   First thing I do if I get this place, I thought, will be to open some windows.

Dad and technology: first published in 1992

When we lived in Colorado Springs, we were just a heartbeat away from the headquarters of Walter Drake and Sons.  You know Walter Drake -- the direct-mail firm whose ads promise an easier, more efficient lifestyle.  Walt's catalogs have been a part of my life for at least 30 years.  Yet when I lived near the Source of All Gadgets, I never made a pilgrimage.  I guess I didn't want to be disappointed.
   Walt's ads never disappoint.  He has a gadget for everything.  With Walt's help, you can thread a needle with just the push of a button.  You can relieve sinus pain with a special heated mask.  You can vacuum your mini-blinds, stop drafts or extend counter space.  I didn't know I had some problems until I found them in Walter Drake. 
   The company has clung to two hallmarks.  The ads are full of exclamation points, and nearly everything runs on batteries.
   Over 45 years Walt's gadgets have gone with the flow.  He still sells his apparatus to remove unsightly facial hair, but he also recognizes that these are dangerous times.  For peace of mind, he is selling a tubular steel door guard to wedge between doorknob and floor.  A burglar-proof door bolt and a door stop alarm complete the lineup.  In another bow to the times, he has come up with some microwave and computer accessorites.
   As ever, Walt's buyers are "into" storage.  His 1992 catalog offers a rolling slacks rack, zippered blanket case, over-the-door clothes and shoe racks, in-closet tie rack, and a baseball cap rack.  Walt's buyers may also be the only people in the world who still iron.  This year he offers an iron cord guide and a rack to store both iron and board.  I'll pass on those, thanks.
   When I think of Walter Drake, I think of my father.  He always loved gadgets.  He has dimmers on all his lamps and special flow controls on every shower head.  He has not opened a can by hand for 40 years.  When my mother's zeal for mending began to fade, he bought a gadget to reattach shirt buttons.  He followed this with a hand-held sewing machine for quick hem repairs.
   Dad and the microwave were love at first sight.  He never really started cooking until he retired, and then he didn't have to.  Most recently, he bought a mini-computer at a yard sale, and taught himself to run it.  Like most yard sale finds, it came without the instruction booklet.
   Dad's fascination with labor-saving devices used to irritate me, especially during my hippie period.  My back-to-the-earth philosophy eschewed appliances (except of course my hair dryer).  I liked to make banana bread by hand, in a huge wooden bowl, kneading the fragrant mixture like clay.  We made our own noodles, and scrubbed floors by hand.  Once in a while someone would dream about getting a place in the country, and doing all the plowing with draft horses.  I'm glad that one didn't work out.
   Time, and increased responsibilities, have mellowed me. My father sits in his Archie-Bunker-style lounger.  (Amazingly, the chair doesn't do anything special.)  He watches a taped movie on the VCR, and lowers the sound with the remote control.  On his coffee table there is a cordless phone and a bowl of microwave popcorn.  I don't blame him a bit.  This June I wish Walter Drake a happy 45th, and my father a happy -- and streamlined -- Father's Day.  He deserves it.

A tale of two fathers

The recent loss of my father brought back memories of my mother's death. After the initial shock, I managed to hold myself together for the funeral service. There was too much to do, there were too many people to greet. She was first of all a homemaker, whatever else she did, but she touched many lives and more than 100 people turned out to honor her memory. Finally we saw the last of the guests off. My husband had taken my children home, my sister's ex had carted off the little ones. And it was my dad, my sister, me and a funeral home guy who wanted to close up. I remember my father, who had just lost his companion of 45 years, steering me and my sister out of the viewing room. "Let's go girls," he said gruffly. "I don't want you here when they close the casket."
I have never forgotten that moment. In his own grief, he cared more about us and seeing our beloved mother for the last time. I have had many occasions to reflect on this in later years, and with his own passing it has become fresh again.
My father's concern for us was a real-time example of our Heavenly Father's concern and caring. Yes, He loves us that much.

If all else fails, I can always try to sell my reality show. It's called "Brother In Lout." See, the premise is, a guy moves into your home and pretends to be your brother-in-law. For six weeks, he has the power to make your life miserable. And he does...the only things that are off-limits are physical abuse, sexual abuse and your IRA. The family that lasts the longest with Brother-In-Lout wins. It lends itself to all kinds of modifications -- Celebrity Brother-In-Lout, where celebs play Brother-In-Lout for charity, and Holiday Brother-In-Lout, where the Brother-In-Lout turns out to be a homeless Vietnam veteran and they give him stuff and everybody cries. Is this an idea or what?