Thursday, October 29, 2009

John Denver

All went well the first night of our visit to Colorado; considering the altitude, the different bed, the excitement of travel, Maggie was solid--I'm sure having three kids to play with helped immensely. I stayed up late with Ana and we talked, just like I told her was going to happen.

Here's some of what I learned: everyone liked Dad, his family did indeed own the coffee plantation and he ran it, his popularity kept him from any entanglements in the violence between guerillas and the state in the 1980s, he was a womanizer, he had liver cancer and died and had a well-attended funeral.

I brought a bunch of pictures from my childhood that Ana and Jose and Ana's Aunt Marta hadn't seen, ones of Dad in his 20s, when he was with my Mom, and ones of me at ages 1,2,3. I had hoped to see some of my time in Chinameca, and others without me, but only had two to look at. One of Ana at her high school graduation and one of Dad far into his cancer, posing with Ana and Jose and the other Jose (by the third woman). I left all my pictures there, for them to scan, but brought back one of myself at age 3, looking exactly like Gavin. I was assured that Marta would send back pictures from her collection in El Salvador.

That was the only disappointment of the trip. Ana and her husband Jose and Jose my brother saw to it that I paid for nothing, and told me from moment one of the visit that theirs was my house as well. So, to summarize, my family lives in Warrenville, and can stay anytime in two houses in Chinameca (Marta's and that of my father's cousin, Rene, a developing-country economist living in Alexandria, Va., and working with UNICEF in Africa) and one in Commerce City, Colo.

On Day 2, we drove to Breckenridge to spend a few hours at a family-oriented resort Ana and her family frequent. Beautiful place, with indoor and outdoor pools and indoor/outdoor hot tubs. That day the region suffered record lows and snow (the weather canceled a playoff baseball game between the Phillies and the Rockies), and Jose took us on the scenic route because he knew I love mountains and Maggie had never really been in them. Myself, Jose, Ana, Lilo, his 8-year-old sister Maggie and 3-month-old Nicolas rode in Jose's pickup and it was scary.

I am a bad passenger in even good conditions, and was nervous because I know what mountain driving is like, and the weather was not ideal, so the anxiety was compounded. Still, what scenery to crash in, if you had to. Plus, the scenic route involved many switchbacks without guard rails overlooking hundreds-of-feet inclines. I was happy to stop at Loveland Pass (ele. 11,990 ft.) for pics and leg-stretching. Windy, cold.

Had a blast in Breckenridge, and it was interesting to be in a world-famous ski town. You could spot the hardcore skiiers a mile away, and really got that fit and beautiful and rich vibe which is apparently more friendly than that of Vail or Aspen. We stopped at a pizza place called Fatty's and the 10 of us took over a back room, ordered pop and water and two large pizzas and took a bunch of pics. When the kids got restless, I took little 3-year-old Frankie and six-year-old Lilo outside. Had a lot of fun carrying Frankie on my shoulders and running around, and it sounded like he did, too. He was my Gavin for a couple days.

At the resort, we swam and steamed and sprinted to the outdoor hot tubs and drank a couple beers in sight of a massive mountain. It was Maggie's first hot-tub experience. She thought the jets were a hoot. We let the kids play at a nearby playground before heading home, as my brother Jose confirmed on the phone our large order of pupusas for pick-up once we got back down to mile-high territory.

It was great fun, and only in retrospect did I realize that our first day at Ana's was perfect preparation for the altitude we rose to the next day. Had we gone from Chicago to Breckenridge we would have been miserable, and I recall being short of breath a couple times while carrying either Maggie or Frankie. We took the fast way back, a little bummed we wouldn't have the Rockies game to watch that night.

Pupusas are corn tortillas with cheese in the middle, at their most basic. We also had frijoles pupusas, and some with shredded meat. They are eaten with a side of vinegary cabbage and some sauce--tear off some pupusa, pinch the piece together with the cabbage and sauce and pop it in the piehole (that would be a great name for a band, huh, Piehole). I first ate them in El Salvador and since I was 11 had eaten them only once, from a Salvadoran place in Chicago, in 2000. Maggie tried some gamely, then switched to mashed potatoes.

Ana drove us to the airport early the next day. Her husband Jose woke up to say bye, and Ana included some gifts for the kids and some of her Maggie's old shoes for Maggie as well as a purse as a belated birthday gift.

For the trip home we had no window seats, but it was a ride in one those new 777s. Very sweet. Maggie was happy for the headphones and kids' music channel, while I love listening to the air-traffic control channel. Plus, you get those TVs in the seatback and can see how high and fast you're going, which is very cool right after takeoff, seeing how quickly you're climbing. I watched a Tim Gunn makeover show because he's fun to listen to.

All in all, a great trip, still trying to wrap my head around having more family. This re-connect was something I had thought about and wanted for decades, and we did it. So happy I have a family to show off, and cannot wait until Carrie and the other kids can meet the Colorado crew.

Probably, we will drive out someday, and for the grandaddy of trips, coordinate a reunion in Chinameca.

Thank you so much to my Mom, who bought us the tickets for my birthday, and who was as happy as me to have the opportunity. Also, to lovely and sassy Carrie, who rejiggered her work schedule so she could be home with the other kids that weekend. Worked her ass off for four days at her job, then a couple more at home alone. And of course to Ana, Jose, Lilo, Maggie, Marta, Jose and Margarita for warmth and fun.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Sly & The Family Stone

After we took Maggie's picture in the pilot's seat, we headed to get our bags. I can never remember if folks can meet you before or after baggage claim, and sure enough, there was Ana, my sister, and Lilo, my first nephew. My sister-in-law's daughter, Samantha, was my first niece.

A little background: My dear ol' Dad had kids with three women--my Mom, the mother of Ana and my brother Jose (he named all his boys Jose), and another, with whom he had the other Jose. By the grace of God go I, but the apple fell just far enough from the tree--I wasn't careful either, but apparently didn't have the same number of gold-medal swimmers (Update: well, I caught up, but not until I met Carrie, with whom I will spend the rest of my life).

I knew Ana, from my two trips to El Salvador, but barely remember her. She was 2 and 6 on my visits. Jose is only 30; because he was born after the last time I saw my Dad (1978), and Dad never mentioned him, I had no idea about him and the younger Jose until re-connecting with Ana this past winter. Ana and her husband, yes, Jose, live in the Denver burbs, with their three kids, Lilo, 5, Maggie, 8, and Nicolas, a few months. Jose moved there with his wife and three-year-old, Frankie, from Maryland a few months ago, fortunately for my visit.

I was nervous, but excited, both for traveling with our Maggie, and for seeing long-lost family. I wanted to ask lots of questions about my Dad, with whom Ana and Jose lived until he died in 1988. I wanted to see pictures I hadn't seen, especially of me on my visits to El Salvador. I wanted to know what it would feel like to be in the same room with my brother and sister and a brother-in-law and sister-in-law and nephews and a niece.

Just to be clear: I have never been angry, consciously, with my Dad for not being around. I have been sad that I would never know him as an adult, to have adult conversations with him. I believe we would have had some laughs. But not angry. All you can ever do is wonder how things would have been different. I have been curious about how he died, how he lived, whether the civil war of the 1980s affected him.

It's also a little sad to show our kids his picture, when he was in his late 20s, very handsome, good picture to have, and say "That's one of your Grandpas, Daddy's Dad." Who you'll never meet. But Ana and Jose know about that, too.

Anyway, you'd expect such a reunion to be emotional, and it was....for Ana. No surprise to my wife, I choked up exactly almost once, when talking late at night with Ana. The first night of our visit, I said something about how it had been 32 years since we last saw each other, then felt one of my lips quiver. It's always a surprise. I cleared my throat and moved on.

The next day we were talking about Dad, maybe it was earlier that first night, and I did a thing Dad used to do with his hands in front of his mouth when he was revved up, like when watching a tense sports moment on TV. It's a surprisingly loud slapping of the fingers and palms together, with the thumbs hooked under the chin and the lips manuevered to change the pitch, almost like whistling. Anyway, I did it, and Ana nearly broke down being caught by surprise at such a haunting.

Her aunt (Mom's sister) had been visiting from El Salvador to help with the baby and we arrived just in time to catch her before she went home. I'm glad we did. She was another witness to Dad's life, as well as my drinking buddy. She and I had a beer before noon the day we arrived.

Maggie and Lilo were like old friends, and played almost from the moment we got to Ana and Jose's house until we left two days later. Eight-year-old Maggie was in school when we arrived and Lilo stayed home from p.m. kindergarten. Hostess Maggie took a while to warm up to visiting Maggie, but I think the gap from 4 to 8 is wide. Eventually, they were just like cousins.

Jose and his family got to the house at dinnertime, and there was nothing to do but hug and take pictures of all combinations of family members. They call him Frankie, because his middle name is Francisco, like my Dad's (and Gavin's, though his is Francis). He's all of 6-foot-3, and to me it was like being with my Dad, height- and looks-wise. He's quiet, but playful.

His wife is named Margarita, continuing a crazy name-game: Ana and Jose's mother was named Margarita, and Ana's daughter is, too, and now Jose's wife, and of course, my Maggie is officially named Margaret. Their son Frankie (another Francisco tribute, I believe) filled up any emptiness I felt not being with the twins--he's about the same size and temperment--so I lifted, tickled, flipped and teased him most enjoyably.

When we got to the house from the airport, Ana's husband Jose was there. A trucker for years, Jose surprised me by telling me that he was my designated playmate in El Salvador, probably on my second trip. The way he described it, whenever I wanted to play some soccer on the cobblestone streets, he'd get a phone call. He's three years older than me, and while I didn't remember him, I may have tried to attack him back then: I had quite a temper as a kid, and fought at the drop of a hat, and I distinctly remember going after someone I was playing ball with.

I also used to be religious; I haven't attacked anyone in years, but I'm now indifferent to religion. I believe that's a whole different blog. And I believe that because I have so much left to write on our visit to Colorado, I'll do it in two parts.

Next: our lasagna dinner and scary but fun trip to Breckenridge, as well as another reunion--with pupusas. Thanks for your interest

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

The Boxtops

I don't mind telling you, I typically have a love/hate relationship with flying. But it was all love last weekend, when I flew with Maggie.

I was a little globetrotter when I was younger--to England a few times, and El Salvador twice--and I don't remember being scared or even nervous. Maybe it has something to do with getting older, having things to lose, or having control of some aspects of your life and then once you buckle up in a plane you have none. A former girlfriend told me turbulence was just like a bumpy road; yeah, I said, but you probably won't fall five miles off the road.

When you fly alone, there's a lot of time for reflection, and the wonder of flying never leaves me. Not so much about how this really heavy machine can get up and stay up, but all the great sights you just don't see anywhere else: breaking through rainy gray clouds to brilliant blue; the giant cauliflower caverns of storm clouds; lightning; seeing just how fast planes go when you see another one pass by 30,000 feet in the air, because you can never tell how fast your own plane is flying; the geometry of fields and towns; the clusters of lights.

Part of that reflection and beauty is tied into mortality. Whatever will happen will happen once the wheels roll, and there's nothing you can do about it. My thoughts always turn to the life I've lived, what I would leave behind, how I would call my wife and kids and mom if there was time and an inevitable conclusion.

I think about how I would respond if I survived impact--when I was single I thought I'd save a kid's life and forfeit mine (as long as burning alive wasn't an issue), but now I have kids, and the kids I don't know would have to call for some single guy if it came to them or me.

Flying was brand new though last weekend, my first time flying alone with a child of mine. Maggie had flown four times before, but was so little, she doesn't remember. It is usually very cool to be with someone when that person is doing something for the first time, and I had a blast explaining everything--moving walkways and escalators (had to pick her up, though she did try both); e-ticket machine; security process (no problems going to Denver, but she freaked on the way home); then boarding and buckling up.

We had window seats on the outbound trip, though partially obscured by an engine. Unfortunately it was rainy and overcast, and the three factors limited the fun of having a window. Maggie didn't care, and the takeoff, something I would normally be squirmy about, especially in soggy weather, was spent vicariously taking off for the first time with her.

It wasn't long before the pilot, who liked to share all he knew rather than keep us blissfully ignorant, told us that the ride would be rough for half the trip. The weather moving through, and the proximity of a 700-mph jet stream.

Great. The cow spends his dull life happily because he doesn't know he's destined for a bash on the skull and a Happy Meal box. I get to imagine just what this guy means by 'rough' while we're still climbing. Then we find out, and I believe it was the worst I've been in, as far as dipping and yawing.

My brain wrung out the memories of last year's flight from Rio to Paris that broke up in turbulence, and the flights to Hawaii that end up with holes in the roof. Sure, these planes are built for it, but that wing seems like it's going to snap! I had to be cool under pressure for Maggie, though, because right then she was.....yelling, "Whoo, whoa, whoa, uh-ohhh, whoa!" Laughing and enjoying.

I told her it was like a roller-coaster ride, and she said she liked roller-coasters (though she's never been on one). She made it better for me, and I stopped imagining myself covering her with my body as we went down, in a futile but necessary attempt to trade my life for hers.

No drinks were spilled and it finally calmed long enough for us to make beaded jewelry for her cousins Lilo and Maggie on our tray tops. I got a great shot of Maggie in the pilot's seat on the way out.

The way home was much less eventful--we flew on a new and beautiful 777; aisle seats; headphones (hers: kids' music; mine: air-traffic channel); seat-back TVs (some Disney Channel show; Tim Gunn's show), shortbread cookies, cranapple juice, and not one bump.



More on what happened between flights later. Hint--it was very cool.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Jim Croce

Gavin wanted a box down from a shelf in the playroom today, and was emphatic on his choice. Not that one, that one, uh-huh.

It had the spy gear in it; cell phones, walkie talkies, science-fiction-style squirt guns. A little later, Darcy got hold of the guns, and as I was changing her diaper, grabbed for them and told me "I like guns."

Now, she also tells me occasionally, out of the blue, "I love you Daddy," so she's hardly flighty, choosing every word carefully. So, what to do? I mean, we have to encourage the young ones when they have interests, right?

I kid because I care. Darcy hasn't gotten her due yet in this space, but she is the main ingredient in one of my favorite sounds. Her giggle is so sweet, and it's guaranteed when I nuzzle her neck and say "yumyumyumyum."

She's got this crazy curly hair, like Cindy-Lou Who, and neither Carrie nor I have it. So curly you don't even think about combing or brushing it when it's dry. People say she looks just like Maggie, except that she's as fair as Maggie is dark, and I see that. Funny thing is, Darcy means "dark one," in some Irish language, and because of Maggie, I thought we'd be safe choosing that name. When we pin back the hair and let that little cherub face shine, she's adorable. And when she's upset, what a bottom lip!

The contrast from her days of infancy is remarkable. She hardly ever smiled and not only that, she would stare at you as if you'd just said that up was down. A lawyer we predicted she'd be; no humor, all business. Now?

What a goof, making faces, noises, smiles, laughs, a smile to a frown in a flash, and of course, that giggle. And when she cries a little too much and I show exasperation, she'll sob, "I'm sorry, Daddy," which worries me because I don't want her to feel like everything's her fault, especially when she's been the victim of a Gavin crime. When we implore him to apologize to her (he's 80% of the reason she cries)--"Say you're sorry"--half the time she'll be the one who says it. "No, not you, him."

I'm still amazed, because of her rosy cheeks, that she's a skinny minny, too; I sometimes have a mental image of her as a little chubster, but she's all ribs and spidery blue veins (thanks to the pale skin).

We love her boldness, but just like Connor had with a security blanket, named Bee Bee, Darcy has Bunny. It's white, and she has to have it to sleep with or when she's really upset. She gnaws on it occasionally, and when she was still in a crib, one of her favorite games was to push it through the bars toward me to have me take a bite. I would pretend to taste and pretend it was disgusting, and she would laugh and laugh and push it to me again.

Our house is always on Bunny Alert, when she's crabby-tired, and we panic when we can't find her. Yes, her; we asked Darcy, and she says Bunny is a her. That thing gets yucky, like a canine chew toy, and gets periodic washing-machine baths, which have to be timed correctly so she's ready for the next bedtime. I'm sure it's the next Typhoid Mary.

In summary, Darcy is pretty much game for anything, and I think will be the girl from Indiana Jones who drinks the yak-master under the table in her Tibetan tavern, dirty-old-man laughing all the while, strapped with a 44-gun in her pocketful of fun.