Category: Memories

Tidy Tidbits: Relationships

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It seems appropriate on this Father’s Day to talk about relationships. Both the novel by Anne Tyler and Lori Gottlieb’s book about therapy say something about parent-child relationships, our most important first relationships. I’ve also included some snippets about my own father whom I still miss after forty plus years.

READING UPDATE

Clock Dance by Anne Tyler

I set this book aside last year.  The reviews were mixed, and I wasn’t in the mood for Baltimore.  I didn’t want to be disappointed in this novel, but even though I finished it, I was.  Willa Drake, a child of the late 60’s, drops out of college to get married and gives up her goals to marry the somewhat controlling Derek.  When he dies and leaves her a young widow, she has two sons to raise and along the way acquires a second husband, Peter, about whose background we learn little.  When a neighbor of her son’s girlfriend in Baltimore (Willa now lives in Phoenix) calls and asks her help in taking care of an 11-year old girl since the former girlfriend is in the hospital, Willa accepts.  The assorted neighbors are a motley crew of typical Anne Tyler folks with eccentricities and Willa gets to know them all.  One might say that Willa gains perspective on herself and her life through her time back east, but I didn’t find her a particularly compelling character or that she underwent much of a transformation.  And I wasn’t fond of the neighborhood cast of characters which perhaps some readers might find more lovable than I did.  (~JWFarrington)

Maybe You Should Talk to Someone by Lori Gottlieb

Psychotherapist Gottlieb’s book is fascinating.  Whether you’ve ever seen a therapist, are sure you’re not a candidate for therapy, or something in between, it’s worth your time.  Gottlieb is bold, frank, and occasionally funny as she relates her sessions with several patients over the course of a year or so.  They range in age from 40-year old TV producer John who thinks everyone else is an idiot,  Rita who’s approaching 70 and so unhappy she’s contemplating suicide, 25-year old Charlotte who has alcohol and attachment issues, and Julie, who in her early 30’s has terminal cancer.  As readers, you get to know these people and are able to eavesdrop on how Gottlieb supports them and prods them to overcome troublesome behaviors.  

But what is extraordinary about this book is the degree to which Gottlieb shares in detail her own sessions with Wendell, her therapist.  She’s been left by the man she was planning to marry and going to therapy helps her deal with the breakup and with other issues in her life.  She strips off the protective layers we all put on and reveals her own worries and concerns.  If I were to see a therapist, I’d want it to be Wendell.  While contemplating an appointment with him, this book is a delightful and thought-provoking journey through what makes us human.  (~JWFarrington) 

GLIMPSES OF DAD

My father was a family man with a broad smile and a sense of humor.  In the 60’s, he became known to us kids as “Daddy-O” and even signed letters and notes that way.   Not overtly gregarious, among friends and family he was both warm and kind. 

He liked the fruits of summer. I can see him returning home from one of the scattered local farm stands bearing the first strawberries of June and in July, ears of fresh corn. The strawberries would be hulled and sliced with a smidge of sugar and ready to top strawberry shortcake.  In our household, we served what I consider true shortcake—strawberries on my mother’s homemade biscuits.  None of those sweet patty shells for us.  As for the corn, it would be eaten on the cob, dripping with butter.

I’ve always thought Dad was ahead of his time.  I know my mother thought so too.  In an age when gender roles were more proscribed, he routinely dried the dinner dishes (pre-dishwasher age); was the weekend breakfast cook, think scrambled eggs and bacon or pancakes; and he made popcorn on the stove the old-fashioned way for Sunday suppers.  More importantly, he spent lots of time playing Flinch, cribbage, and board games with my sisters and me.  When my brother was old enough, they’d play catch in the backyard.  Other fathers seemed more focused on their work lives.  

In a family with four kids, parents have to spread their attention around, and often, the younger kids need it the most.  I was the oldest, but I had the advantage of alone time with my father when he drove us to Syracuse for my frequent orthodontist appointments.  The ride was about 45 minutes each way, so we had time for all sorts of conversation—-I relished having him to myself. 

My father was one of my biggest supporters.  I imagine my siblings felt similarly.  I got the impression he thought I could do anything I put my mind to and that was a powerful message.  He pushed me a bit, but in a good way, and once told me I was too soft, or as he phrased it, I needed to be “a bit more hard-bitten.”  It’s a comment I’ve never forgotten and like to think it served me well at the right moments.

Sadly, Dad died at 48 when I was just 25.  On this Father’s Day, I cherish these memories while simultaneously taking great joy in watching my son be a wonderful father to his own two daughters.

Note: Contents ©JWFarrington (some rights reserved).

Tidy Tidbits: Family Names

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NAMES THAT ARE MEMORABLE

My maternal grandfather was a Texan born in 1894.  While in the service, he went home to Pennsylvania with a good friend where he met and then married his friend’s sister, my grandmother.  My grandfather moved east to Pennsylvania and then together they re-located to Adrian, Michigan where they lived out their lives.   And their house is still standing, but looking a bit smaller.

When I knew him, Granddaddy was still a handsome man, solidly built with a full head of thick white hair and a somewhat leathery face.  He enjoyed the outdoors, was an avid fisherman, and he and my grandmother spent part of the winter in Arizona in their later years.  At home, and especially after retiring, he spent time cultivating a large vegetable garden, “the back 40,” he called it.  Kentucky Wonder green beans, New Zealand spinach (the name was supposed to make it go down better with us kids), and okra (not a vegetable I’d ever encountered before) were some of the bounty of his labors.  I also recall that he was a fan of a daily late afternoon nap, stretched out on the living room couch.  A practice my mother also adopted.  

In his working life, Granddaddy was a traveling salesman for a hardware distributor making calls on stores in the greater Adrian region to sell the Bingham Company’s wares.  Like him, two of his sons were also “drummers” for this firm for a time.  He must have been persuasive since he was successful in the business, but I, his granddaughter, never found him to be much of a conversationalist.  And I was a bit intimidated by his seemingly gruff manner. 

My last vivid memories of him are the weekend we spent in Ohio one summer celebrating his and Grandmommy’s 40thwedding anniversary.  It was a fun family reunion, and all our cousins were in attendance as well as great aunts and uncles I hadn’t previously met.  Sadly, he died only a couple years later when I was fourteen, and I missed the chance to get to know him better.

He was known as Bill and my grandmother was Jean.  But his first and middle names were “Zenith” and “Boone.” That’s a mouthful.  Combine it with a notable last name like “Hancock,” and you’ve got quite a handle.  I got curious about his names and did a bit of research on how often certain names are used.  It turns out that according to Social Security Administration records, Zenith was used as a first name for only 430 babies between 1880 and 2017.  In the year, 1897, six babies were named Zenith, and the first recorded Zenith in the U.S. was in 1875.  Even more surprising, the year that saw the most babies given that name was 2017 with 19.  As far as I can tell, there were no other Zeniths in the family before my grandfather.  Perhaps his parents, William Allen and Sarah Elizabeth, just liked the sound of it and its connotation as the highest. 

Daniel Boone (courtesy of history.com)

His middle name, “Boone,” was easier to trace.  Family lore had had it that somehow, we were related to the famous Daniel Boone.  But I also discovered that the name Boone has occurred most often in Texas.  And my grandfather’s grandfather (his mother’s father) was Nathaniel Boone Burkett, born in 1820, the year Daniel Boone died.  A note in the genealogy site, geni.com, added by another Geni user, states that Mr. Burkett was named after the youngest son of Daniel Boone, a close family friend.  That son was Nathan Boone. One mystery solved.

Bill and Jean Hancock, my grandparents, had four children. (Note that there were almost half a million girls named “Jean” between 1880 and 2017).   They named their oldest son and firstborn for his father and he was Zenith Boone Hancock, Jr.  He was also known as “Bill.”  My mother was next and was just Elizabeth, perhaps for her grandmother, Sarah Elizabeth, but I don’t really know.  The second son was James with Findley (my grandmother’s maiden name).  Lastly, the youngest and third son was christened John Hancock, no middle name, but a very distinctive name for sure. 

Uncle Bill (Z. B. Jr.) married and divorced and had no children so there were no more Zeniths.  The male names given to my cousins were: James, David, John, and Steven, while my parents conferred names from my father’s side on my only brother.  In naming our son, the Chief Penguin and I decided that “Hancock” was a most appropriate middle name. But to answer the unasked question, I don’t believe we are direct descendants of the John Hancock.

DINING OUT

We had heard a bit about and I kept reading about The Rosemary. Finally last weekend, the Chief Penguin and I dined there with friends.  The restaurant that offers dinner is now several doors down from the original Rosemary (serving breakfast and lunch) and is called Rosemary and Thyme.  It is lovely and pleasant and inside doesn’t feel at all like you are in Sarasota. 

Restaurant dining room (Twitter)

The main dining room is large and nicely appointed with dark wood sideboard and attractive tables comfortably spaced.  There is a side room which is longer and narrower with tables and booths closer together.  And, as a third option, you can dine outside in a more casual area.  I ordered the swordfish special which was excellent accompanied by risotto and veggies, while others sampled the tasty grouper, the delectable looking scallops, and the fish soup which got rave reviews.  It’s a great addition to our Sarasota dining repertoire.

On the Road: November Thoughts

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REMEMBERING AND WAITING

November is a month for reflection, remembrance and responsibility, the latter being our duty to exercise our precious right to vote.  The most consequential election eve of my life was not 2016 (although that result was stunning and disappointing), but 45 years ago in 1973.

November 5

It was November cold and the night was winter black.  In the end, or rather at the end, we were all there.  Mother, of course, and EB, plus S. and D. who lived nearby.  A. had been gently persuaded not to return to Oberlin just yet.  Greg and I, from the furthest away, made the seemingly endless drive from Clifton Park to the hospital in Rochester.  On the way, snow flurries wet the windshield.  It must have been near eleven when we arrived.

Dad was Dad and not.  His labored breathing, with a hitch like a bone stuck somewhere deep—death rattle they call it—and his distended abdomen were not.  Semi-awake, the light in his eyes and the slight smile were him.  He was lucid and called us all by name.

“Jean, I have your book—haven’t finished it—the Bruce Catton one.”

“That’s okay,” I said.  (When Morning Comes, ah, the irony of that title.)

We all left his room and huddled down the hall in the lounge; blessedly we had it to ourselves.  Tom D, childhood friend and now a young resident, was around, providing comfort and warmth and himself gearing up to lose his first patient, a longtime family friend.  We mostly sat and conversed about not much, focused separately on our about-to-be grief and the impending loss.  So young were we that we selfishly thought primarily of ourselves and not our mother, who was about to lose her life’s companion, her anchor, and her love.

Tom brought in a McDonald’s supper—more something to occupy us than true nourishment.  And we waited and waited, for what we now knew would be the inevitable conclusion.  There were going to be no miracles, no second chances.

CODA: November 6 (Election Day)

My marvelously nurturing father died in the wee hours of the morning.  None of us made it to the polls.  Dad, always a responsible citizen, had already voted absentee by mail.

Note: Header photo, Night Sky, is from www.lifeinthefingerlakes.com

Tidy Tidbits: Of Eggs and Art

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SNAPSHOTS OF EASTER

When I was a child and young adult, Easter was a major holiday.  Not major like Christmas, but certainly notable and celebrated.  Those celebrations included Easter baskets stuffed with green plastic grass and an assortment of jelly beans (the spice ones were the best!) and colorful foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.  If one was really lucky, there was also a separately boxed Cadbury chocolate crème egg.  (These still exist, but are no longer packaged in a box.)  This large egg had a thick outer layer of milk chocolate coating an orb of white candy with a yellow yolk, mimicking a real egg.  Yum!

Celebrating Easter also meant going to church, something my family did every Sunday, but on this day in a new dress or, more likely, a new pastel-colored spring coat.  We lived where winter held its grip, and little girls wore light wool spring coats in yellow or blue or pink.  When older, I participated in an occasional Easter sunrise service.  Being at church at 6:30 am was a challenge for any teenager, this one included!

We didn’t have many relatives nearby so dinner on Easter Sunday was usually just my immediate family, with perhaps once, dinner with my great Uncle Edwin and Aunt Ruth.  They lived an hour away and weren’t accustomed to having children around.  Ruth set a formal table and one time served each of us kids (my two sisters and me) a quarter slab of a pint of ice cream.  It was lemon flavor and an undeniably daunting serving for a child!  At home, Easter dinner was baked ham with potatoes, often scalloped, green salad, and probably green beans.  When our son was small and  Cousin Jane lived close, she invited us and other cousins for Easter dinner preceded by an egg hunt for the children, a lovely tradition that lasted for some years.

 SEASON’S LASTS

In this past week, we went to the last of a number of events.  On Sunday we saw our last opera of the season which was the final performance by the Sarasota Opera for this year.  Egen d’Albert’s Tiefland is a seldom performed work sung in German and first presented in 1903.  It’s about a simple shepherd who is corralled into marrying Marta, a young woman who is the reluctant mistress of the area’s big landowner and boss, but also a less than eager bride.  It was slow at the start, but then picked up and was most enjoyable.

 It was also the last week for our SILL (Sarasota Institute of Lifetime Learning) series and both ended on high notes.  At Music Monday, we were treated to Ashu, an exuberant and spirited young classical saxophonist, along with a Russian pianist who was equally dazzling.  Later in the week at Global Affairs, we heard a grim, but very detailed, report from journalist Amberin Zaman on the sorry state of affairs in Turkey, a country rapidly becoming more authoritarian and more repressive under the continuing leadership of President Erdogan.

RECOMMENDED READING—STOLEN ART

Stolen Beauty by Laurie Lico Albanese.

This is a wonderful novel about Klimt’s famous work, Woman in Gold, and the woman who inspired it.  Last fall, while in Manhattan, we visited the Neue Galerie founded by Ronald Lauder, and it was there that I saw this marvelous painting.  Earlier, the C.P. and I had seen the movie, The Woman in Gold, about Maria Altmann’s lengthy legal battles to regain possession of her aunt’s portrait stolen by the Nazis in the 1940’s.

Lico Albanese re-creates the life of Adele Bloch-Blauer, a rich young bride in early 20th century Vienna, whose love of art and whose bold desire to study philosophy and other subjects forbidden to females, prompts her to encourage and support Gustav Klimt.  Klimt’s art was daring and controversial and Adele became one of his muses and subjects.  

Interwoven with Adele’s story is that of her niece Maria during and after the Nazi takeover of Austria.  Submitting to the unthinkable to free her husband, Fritz, from prison, Maria and Fritz must then re-make their life in a new country.  Years later, Maria faces the challenge of recovering her family’s stolen art.  Based on history, Lico Albanese’s novel is a fascinating portrait of glittering, cultured Vienna and two equally fascinating women.  (~JWFarrington)

 

Notes:  Header image from Amazon.co.uk; photo of Ashu from Ravinia Festival and Woman in Gold from Huffington Post.