It may be strange to say, on a blog dedicated to excessive self-flagellation and the magnification of ubiquitous trivialities, but there are certain insufficiencies and disappointments of which I have never complained. This is not due so much to any masculine stoicism, nor the eventual resolution brought by the passage of time, but rather because, to put it in simple terms, I was afraid to confront it.
And so this topic may have remained unexamined still, except that I have recently resolved to abandon the comforting crutch of avoidance for the less certain, but ultimately more rewarding (hopefully) promise of personal honesty. That is, honesty to myself about myself.
Probably even a few weeks ago I could never have written this post, or if I had it would have been left forever unpublished, or at best buried through the judicious use of back dating. But with the help of a good and paitent friend, I've learned that what you don't say is far more hurtful than what you do.
With this newfound, and yet unsteady dedication, I turn to review in earnest a topic of great personal dissatisfaction. Appropriately enough, for Father's Day, it is my relationship with my own.
I should start out by allowing that my parents were very young when I was born. My dad was 23, my mom 19. The undeniable fact is that, to a certain extent, I ruined their lives, and though I can be assigned little blame, still the realization is actual enough to prompt some degree of guilt. Had they had their first child later, no doubt everyone would have been happier. This is not to say that they didn't adjust, or that they would wish things were different. But it is undeniable that basically I screwed things up for everybody.
The actual problem, however, is that at 23, and with the subsequent demands of family life from such a young age, my dad lacked any of the attributes of responsible parentage aside from a firm sense of responsibility. When I came, and then almost two years later my brother as well, he took a job he hated and worked to provide for us, and I respect that effort. Unfortunately his own displeasure grew, and when combined with his volitile personality, explosive temper, and generally poor disposition, it produced in him a growing discontent that he was unable to properly manage.
While I in no sense wish to imply that my childhood was an unremitting misery, neither would it be accurate to say that it was not miserable. The fact is that the behavior of my father would, by today's standards, be considered physically, mentally, and emotionally abusive. He could be brought into uncontrollable rages by trivial infractions or insignificant accidents. Setting the wrong dinner fork, or using a TV tray that he wanted were among the most absurd triggers, though there were others.
His anger could be a terrible thing to behold, especially to a small child. When enraged he delighted in subjecting us to blistering evaluations and tirades of endless profanity. In those unfortunate situations where emotional wounds seemed in his judgment insufficient, he proved willing to resort to those more readily apparent.
On an absolute metric of physical abuse, probably what we received was fairly mild. We were never punched or kicked, used as footstools or ashtrays. But we were hit, and by which I mean to indicate more than spanking or a little whack aside the head, though such indulgences may also have made occasional appearances.
During my father's rages, my mother would usually stand off to the side. He never, insofar as I know, was physical with her in the least, but whether through fear or agreement, she abstained from intervention, except when it seemed he had finally lost the last semblence of control.
Even with my limited understanding of psychology, I know that such experiences have left deep wounds, which yet are still raw to the touch. In many ways the personal deficiencies that trouble me on so many levels are attributable, either directly or indirectly, to these events. Of course I do not mean to lay all my inadequacies at my father's feet, and at any rate these incidents ended long ago, and it is reasonable to say I should simply get over it.
In a very real way, part of me never actually matured. Or, if it did, it did so in some stunted and twisted sense. There is a piece of my soul that never grew up, but rather learned to grow over itself, with layer after layer of insufficient rationalizations and imperfect defenses. I have lived with the fear that, in the end, I may be nothing more than the little boy who tried to shield his head from his father's anger. And it is an apprehension that still colors everything that I am.
But I realize now that whatever my father's errors, in the end the responsibility is my own. Fear offers only hesitation and discontent, and it is my fault and mine alone if I accept them. I am still broken, I think, and probably will always remain so in at least some fashion.
But I am unwilling to condemn myself to a life of misery, nor through some misguided sense of anger, allow the responsibility for my own contentment to rest with others. For a very long time I was bitter and angry and hateful, but those emotions have wearied me, and provided nothing in recompense. So while I may not be able to completely abandon them, at least no longer will I rely on them.
Interestingly enough, my current relationship with my dad is tolerably pleasent. We have a stable, if somewhat shallow bond based on some mutual interests and a generally pessimistic view of life. I know in my heart I will always hate him, at least in part, but that is no longer the dominant paradigm of our interactions. It may seem like that is not much. But it's more than I had before.
Happy Father's Day.
Showing posts with label Friends and Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friends and Family. Show all posts
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Kanninen to right of them, Kanninen to left of them, Kanninen in front of them
Although Matt has already so announced in the comments to the last post, I figured an impending addition to the great mass of humanity is sufficient cause to restat posting to this stupid blog. Plus, one should never pass up an opportunity to paraphrase Tennyson.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
More Kanninens
Matt was married in some sort of ceremony that, quite frankly, didn't appear interesting enough to warrant a trip!
I mean, if you expect me to go all the way down to Los Angeles, there'd better be some kind of ritual animal combat. Personally, I'm partial to monkeys, but you know anything vaguely vertebrate would work.
At any rate, assorted congratulations to Matt and Sevina.
I mean, if you expect me to go all the way down to Los Angeles, there'd better be some kind of ritual animal combat. Personally, I'm partial to monkeys, but you know anything vaguely vertebrate would work.
At any rate, assorted congratulations to Matt and Sevina.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
You can never have too many riding shotgun.
The descendents of Jesse James (direct or collateral I'm not exactly sure of) increased by one with the birth of a baby girl. Congratulations to Jackson and his family.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Red Envelopes: The real reason for the chicken's road crossing
Today is the Lunar New Year, better known as Chinese New Year. As is customary among Asians, my father's family distributes red envelopes to mark the occasion. All in all, not a bad way to celebrate a holiday. Of course, as a single man, I *get* them rather than give them, which may have something to do with my view on the practice.
We actually never celebrate the New Year as a family on the real date, delaying instead until such a time as we can all assemble at one place, typically on a day of the ensuing weekend. This year it looks to be a lunch on Saturday. Lunches are good because, holiday obligations aside, my father's family is rife with all the kinds of division common to affluent Asian families. Many of us can barely stand the others, for reasons both petty and significant. Thus the more time efficient lunch setting is typically to be preferred over the more demanding formalities of dinner.
I'll talk more about my dad's family another time. For now, in honor of the holiday, it's enough simply to wish you all a happy New Year.
We actually never celebrate the New Year as a family on the real date, delaying instead until such a time as we can all assemble at one place, typically on a day of the ensuing weekend. This year it looks to be a lunch on Saturday. Lunches are good because, holiday obligations aside, my father's family is rife with all the kinds of division common to affluent Asian families. Many of us can barely stand the others, for reasons both petty and significant. Thus the more time efficient lunch setting is typically to be preferred over the more demanding formalities of dinner.
I'll talk more about my dad's family another time. For now, in honor of the holiday, it's enough simply to wish you all a happy New Year.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
The Cave Troll of Casa Ocho
Well, this won't really make much sense to just about anyone else outside of six unfortunate UCSC alumnus, but that is the nature of inside jokes.
Hope things are going well for my favorite monitor monkey.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
The face of addiction
Yesterday night the USC Trojans pummeled the Sooners of Oklahoma and secured the national championship they had been robbed of last year. This marks an end to the 2004 college football season, and the beginning of what, for many across the country, is an eight month drought. These poor souls, deprived of their precious sport, will have to subsist on a thin ration of scouting reports, practice appraisals, and recruiting commitments, awaiting the return of football as feverently as the Jews watch for the Messiah. I know just how brutal the effects of football withdrawal can be, because my own brother is one of the addicts. For my own part I like the sport, but I care little for individual results.
Although my brother has no greater connection to the school than having lived within an hour's drive of it, he has become an obsessive California Golden Bears fan. This condition really only took root nine or ten years ago, though he likes to fancy himself a more established participant, and often predates his alliegance by several years. This is an understandable response to the "old blues" he encounters on message boards and the like, who measure fan loyalty by no other meter than the length of your devotion. Nevertheless, it is somewhat amusing.
The mentality of a fanatic is really something quite unique. Although it goes without saying that he is always rooting for Cal to win a game, the obsession has transformed my brother's obligations, expanding his concerns into a vast lattice of interconnected irrelevancies. First he must support Cal. Then he must support the Pac-10, the athletic conference to which Cal belongs.
The strength of teams is often measured by the strength of their opponents. Hence, if the Pac-10 is strong, that makes Cal stronger (in theory). But it doesn't stop there. Next he roots for Cal's non-conference opponents in games against non-Pac-10 teams, because the better they do, the better Cal's schedule looks. From there, he goes on to support teams that played against teams that Cal played, so long as they don't violate any of the other Asimovic laws of football fandom.
The exponential nature of this process should be fairly apparent; it is with amazement that I find he is able to follow all of these preceedings, and with an attention to detail I doubt his actual responsibilities are blessed to enjoy. I honestly believe that, at some point, a situation will arise where, in Cal's interests it should be more favorable for them to lose than win. At that point, unable to cope with the contradiction, I expect my brother's head to explode.
Although my brother has no greater connection to the school than having lived within an hour's drive of it, he has become an obsessive California Golden Bears fan. This condition really only took root nine or ten years ago, though he likes to fancy himself a more established participant, and often predates his alliegance by several years. This is an understandable response to the "old blues" he encounters on message boards and the like, who measure fan loyalty by no other meter than the length of your devotion. Nevertheless, it is somewhat amusing.
The mentality of a fanatic is really something quite unique. Although it goes without saying that he is always rooting for Cal to win a game, the obsession has transformed my brother's obligations, expanding his concerns into a vast lattice of interconnected irrelevancies. First he must support Cal. Then he must support the Pac-10, the athletic conference to which Cal belongs.
The strength of teams is often measured by the strength of their opponents. Hence, if the Pac-10 is strong, that makes Cal stronger (in theory). But it doesn't stop there. Next he roots for Cal's non-conference opponents in games against non-Pac-10 teams, because the better they do, the better Cal's schedule looks. From there, he goes on to support teams that played against teams that Cal played, so long as they don't violate any of the other Asimovic laws of football fandom.
The exponential nature of this process should be fairly apparent; it is with amazement that I find he is able to follow all of these preceedings, and with an attention to detail I doubt his actual responsibilities are blessed to enjoy. I honestly believe that, at some point, a situation will arise where, in Cal's interests it should be more favorable for them to lose than win. At that point, unable to cope with the contradiction, I expect my brother's head to explode.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Twenty-Five
Oh, aside from my maginificent bowling performance, there is one other event worth memorializing. Today is my parent's twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Yup. Married twenty-five years ago this december 22. I was born in May. If you think you hear the sounds of someone loading a shotgun, you aren't the only one. Still, they've managed to make it work well enough.
Good for them.
Good for them.
Monday, August 23, 2004
The weakest link
Well, I've linked to a new blog. It's maintained by one of my friends, an old roommate from UCSC. There's not really much I can say in his favor. He's pretty dumb, shallow too, and yes a Dragonball Z fan to boot, but for all that I guess it's a little late in the day to renounce him. You can see his new blog here, if you really have nothing better to do.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
The madness of Jane Stewart
My maternal grandmother has Alzheimer's disease, a degenerative mental condition for those of you living in a cave somewhere. While my medical training is limited to episodes of ER, her deterioration seems quite rapid, which leads me to believe that some of those things we simply ascribed to the march of time were somewhat more menacing.
At its later stages, Alzheimers is a cruel inequity, stealing from its victims every defining intellectual article of personality until all you are left with is an empty vessel, infuriating in its approximation of someone you once knew. While my grandmother's condition is not yet so grave, there is a noticable diminishment in her faculties. She is less and less the person that she was, and it is increasingly clear that one day she'll just submerge into a depth from whence there is no return. Depression, or so it seems to my untrained eye, has come on the wings of revelation, leaving only the possibility that it will vanish as does her ability to understand it. She is the toughest old lady I've ever met, and for all that, there isn't a thing she can do.
At play in my mind are all the normal feelings you'd expect. I have been dealing with the kind of guilt you feel when you haven't been there perhaps as much as you should. To a certain extent, I think of her as dead already, and mourn the passing of her personality, which I consider a far greater loss than the inevitable end of her body. I feel bad for my mother too. Her father died in late May, just a few months ago, and now her mother is on the way out too. Mom has been forced to assume the burdens of final care, as the rest of her sibblings are unavailable for a variety of reasons. She spends much of her time with Grandma until a more permanent solution can be found, and she is in charge of the various legal and financial issues death and disability incurr.
For my own part, I have been especially reticent in visits since the diagnosis. I know about the kind of person this makes me, but I find the process very disturbing. In many ways, it would've been better for us if she had died "clean." This is a very selfish way to think of things, and I cannot defend myself from any position but that what I say is the truth as I see it.
Death is inevitable, but it comes and goes. The people who are left behind move on, and from that distance achieve the ability to remember, always with some melancholy, but eventually with a comfortable peace. Degeneration is worse, because it carries everyone else along with it until, at the end, all you are left with is relief, a feeling all the worse for the fact that you dare not express it but to yourself. Even so, were that the extent of my apprehension, it would not be so bad. From a certain point of view, there is a kind of nobility in wanting to preserve for yourself the person you used to know. Selfish, perhaps, but gently, singularly, humane. Unfortunately, my character is yet more defective.
I have always valued intelligence. It may be the case that I have put too much emphasis on it, especially as a way to measure and consider people, but I have always considered it a more equitable meter than physical appearence, athletic prowess, or fiduciary resources. More than that though, I value it as what I like most about myself. In my grandmothers current condition is a spectre of an unspeakable fate. One that, perhaps from a karmic standpoint I may someday rightfully deserve, but even so the possibility is intensely disturbing. I do not exaggerate when I say I would rather be dead than suffer the indignity of mental disintegration. To see it so close to home, and to witness the living ghost that was once my grandmother is almost too much.
I guess that makes me a pretty rotten person, but it's all I've got to go on.
At its later stages, Alzheimers is a cruel inequity, stealing from its victims every defining intellectual article of personality until all you are left with is an empty vessel, infuriating in its approximation of someone you once knew. While my grandmother's condition is not yet so grave, there is a noticable diminishment in her faculties. She is less and less the person that she was, and it is increasingly clear that one day she'll just submerge into a depth from whence there is no return. Depression, or so it seems to my untrained eye, has come on the wings of revelation, leaving only the possibility that it will vanish as does her ability to understand it. She is the toughest old lady I've ever met, and for all that, there isn't a thing she can do.
At play in my mind are all the normal feelings you'd expect. I have been dealing with the kind of guilt you feel when you haven't been there perhaps as much as you should. To a certain extent, I think of her as dead already, and mourn the passing of her personality, which I consider a far greater loss than the inevitable end of her body. I feel bad for my mother too. Her father died in late May, just a few months ago, and now her mother is on the way out too. Mom has been forced to assume the burdens of final care, as the rest of her sibblings are unavailable for a variety of reasons. She spends much of her time with Grandma until a more permanent solution can be found, and she is in charge of the various legal and financial issues death and disability incurr.
For my own part, I have been especially reticent in visits since the diagnosis. I know about the kind of person this makes me, but I find the process very disturbing. In many ways, it would've been better for us if she had died "clean." This is a very selfish way to think of things, and I cannot defend myself from any position but that what I say is the truth as I see it.
Death is inevitable, but it comes and goes. The people who are left behind move on, and from that distance achieve the ability to remember, always with some melancholy, but eventually with a comfortable peace. Degeneration is worse, because it carries everyone else along with it until, at the end, all you are left with is relief, a feeling all the worse for the fact that you dare not express it but to yourself. Even so, were that the extent of my apprehension, it would not be so bad. From a certain point of view, there is a kind of nobility in wanting to preserve for yourself the person you used to know. Selfish, perhaps, but gently, singularly, humane. Unfortunately, my character is yet more defective.
I have always valued intelligence. It may be the case that I have put too much emphasis on it, especially as a way to measure and consider people, but I have always considered it a more equitable meter than physical appearence, athletic prowess, or fiduciary resources. More than that though, I value it as what I like most about myself. In my grandmothers current condition is a spectre of an unspeakable fate. One that, perhaps from a karmic standpoint I may someday rightfully deserve, but even so the possibility is intensely disturbing. I do not exaggerate when I say I would rather be dead than suffer the indignity of mental disintegration. To see it so close to home, and to witness the living ghost that was once my grandmother is almost too much.
I guess that makes me a pretty rotten person, but it's all I've got to go on.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Tomodachi
I got to hang out with one of my friends who I otherwise rarely see. He is the one in the JET program, teaching English in Japan. A mutual friend is getting married, so he flew back for the wedding. I haven't seen him since he left for Japan, and even before then we hadn't spent much time together. Back in high school we used to be closer, but four years of college left their mark.
My friend is a man of incredible potential. He has an astonishing intellect, but what I have always regarded most highly is his enthusiasm. Now, I find enthusiasm a troubling thing. I do not like to just "dive in." I am a reasoned man, cautious to a certain degree perhaps, but I just like to proceed secure in the knowledge that I have seen as many of the angles as I can. His is a deep, abiding interest, an ardor that drives him to excel and eventually becomes all consuming. I admire his ability to devote himself to a certain subject or field of study, even as I find the singlemindedness that results disturbing and deleterious.
He has taken the opportunity JET provided him, and embraced the foriegn completely. He speaks Japanese with, what to my ears, is astonishing ease. If perhaps he lacks the polish of a native speaker, he is certainly approaching fluency. In some ways this, and not high school or college, will prove his defining experience, and it is a chance I can only consider abstractly.
Yesterday we went out to dinner with the rest of his family. Given that he has only ten days here, his time is leveraged pretty much completely, so it was good to get to hang out for a while. Of all the people I know from high school, he has changed the least, and there is some comfort in that. We picked up very easily, right where we had left off. We were always fast friends, mutual interests and dislikes worked to form a broad if, in some ways, comparatively shallow bond. His arrival simply underscores the general feeling of discontent I've been experiencing as a result of the disturbing self-admission that my old friendships are, if not dead, substantially different than I remember them. Still, I am encouraged by the ease with which we fell into old routines, and hopefully the future will allow for a renewal of old relationships.
The wedding is this Saturday, after which he'll be going back to Japan. Happy trails.
My friend is a man of incredible potential. He has an astonishing intellect, but what I have always regarded most highly is his enthusiasm. Now, I find enthusiasm a troubling thing. I do not like to just "dive in." I am a reasoned man, cautious to a certain degree perhaps, but I just like to proceed secure in the knowledge that I have seen as many of the angles as I can. His is a deep, abiding interest, an ardor that drives him to excel and eventually becomes all consuming. I admire his ability to devote himself to a certain subject or field of study, even as I find the singlemindedness that results disturbing and deleterious.
He has taken the opportunity JET provided him, and embraced the foriegn completely. He speaks Japanese with, what to my ears, is astonishing ease. If perhaps he lacks the polish of a native speaker, he is certainly approaching fluency. In some ways this, and not high school or college, will prove his defining experience, and it is a chance I can only consider abstractly.
Yesterday we went out to dinner with the rest of his family. Given that he has only ten days here, his time is leveraged pretty much completely, so it was good to get to hang out for a while. Of all the people I know from high school, he has changed the least, and there is some comfort in that. We picked up very easily, right where we had left off. We were always fast friends, mutual interests and dislikes worked to form a broad if, in some ways, comparatively shallow bond. His arrival simply underscores the general feeling of discontent I've been experiencing as a result of the disturbing self-admission that my old friendships are, if not dead, substantially different than I remember them. Still, I am encouraged by the ease with which we fell into old routines, and hopefully the future will allow for a renewal of old relationships.
The wedding is this Saturday, after which he'll be going back to Japan. Happy trails.
Banzai, Captain Japan!
I GM for a group of players in San Leandro on the weekends. Though we just started picking up again, we've been doing it for about a year now and I've come to know them more and more as time goes by. I met the group through one of my college roommates, Big Milin. Now we're all relatively friendly, and I go over to particpate in activities aside from just gaming, like poker or the occasional social Bar-B-Q. Recently, I've learned that one of the players is also a minor league professional wrestler.
Now, I will be honest in admitting that I look down on pro-wrestling as insipid. Not because it's fake, but just because it's stupid. When I was in fourth grade I used to like it, rooting for Hulk Hogan and the Ultimate Warrior, but that was a long time ago. Now I just think it's dumb, and were it not for the South (a hotbead of idiocy, both modern and historic, in its own right) I'd like to think it'd vanish completely. Even so, it is neat to learn someone you know participates in such an outlandish "sport," and the customs of friendly association compel me to at least mention him.
So, if you are a wrestling fan and you live in the California Bay Area, try and catch Hopsing Lee in his bid to become Shogun of the South Bay.
Go Captain Japan!
Banzai!
Now, I will be honest in admitting that I look down on pro-wrestling as insipid. Not because it's fake, but just because it's stupid. When I was in fourth grade I used to like it, rooting for Hulk Hogan and the Ultimate Warrior, but that was a long time ago. Now I just think it's dumb, and were it not for the South (a hotbead of idiocy, both modern and historic, in its own right) I'd like to think it'd vanish completely. Even so, it is neat to learn someone you know participates in such an outlandish "sport," and the customs of friendly association compel me to at least mention him.
So, if you are a wrestling fan and you live in the California Bay Area, try and catch Hopsing Lee in his bid to become Shogun of the South Bay.
Go Captain Japan!
Banzai!
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Jetsetting
I have a friend who is currently in Japan as part of the JET program. JET, or Japanese Exchange and Teaching, is a program that sends people to Japan to teach English. From most accounts, JET is a relatively supportive organization, and most of the experiences I've read online have been positive. Of course, it must be accepted that most participants would begin with an interest in Japan, so there may be more than a little statistical bias. Still, people keep signing up, and the opportunity to live in a foriegn country is not often available to the average college graduate.
Although I'm not sure I would go in his place, I do envy my friend his opportunity. Aside from the chance to live overseas, which is something that I've always wanted to do, he is at least doing something. School represents my previous engagements as well as my future prospects for at least the next two years. Not only am I now heartily sick of all things educational, but as I see my friends moving on and getting real jobs, I can't help but feel left behind. It is a little thing, perhaps, but it adds to a more general frustration that has been mounting slowly but steadily these last few years.
If I were to engage in such a program, Japan would be pretty high on my list. Obviously the nature of the program would require a non-english speaking country, and I already pursue anime and Japanese dramas with enthusiasm. Japan is also relatively safe, close to a lot of other interesting asiatic attractions, and home to a lot of US military personnel. Although there is something to be said of their bias against foriegners, I've had a lot of experience dealing with people who don't much like me, and few of them have been as polite as the Japanese are supposed to be.
Although I'm not sure I would go in his place, I do envy my friend his opportunity. Aside from the chance to live overseas, which is something that I've always wanted to do, he is at least doing something. School represents my previous engagements as well as my future prospects for at least the next two years. Not only am I now heartily sick of all things educational, but as I see my friends moving on and getting real jobs, I can't help but feel left behind. It is a little thing, perhaps, but it adds to a more general frustration that has been mounting slowly but steadily these last few years.
If I were to engage in such a program, Japan would be pretty high on my list. Obviously the nature of the program would require a non-english speaking country, and I already pursue anime and Japanese dramas with enthusiasm. Japan is also relatively safe, close to a lot of other interesting asiatic attractions, and home to a lot of US military personnel. Although there is something to be said of their bias against foriegners, I've had a lot of experience dealing with people who don't much like me, and few of them have been as polite as the Japanese are supposed to be.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Loss
On Thursday my maternal grandfather died. He'd been having health problems for a while now. Last monday he fell and broke his hip, which to be honest, I didn't think was going to be a big deal. He'd broken it before, but this time he developed complications in the hospital. He had a heart attack, during which oxygen deprivation caused a stroke. By the time I arrived in Sacramento they had him hooked up to tubes making him breathe, though his heart was going strong. My mom's family met and discussed the options, though I gathered there really weren't any. The doctors performed a few brain activity tests, pro forma I think, and that was basically his last chance. The DNR was signed, the machines unplugged, and that was that.
I didn't really know my grandfather very well. He was always sort of a remote figure, not only by distance, but by personality. I always got the feeling that he didn't like me very much, though he may simply have been that way with everyone. For my part I had no lack of respect for him, but admittedly I regarded him on a personal level no greater than he did me. Gruff criticsm was the tenor of most of our conversations, and he had such an objection to trivialities; trivialities that to me not only make life bearable, but indeed encapsulate the entire point of living. He saw the Great Depression and fought in World War II. Life was a struggle to him, and my desire to simply coast by must have struck him as exceedingly indulgent. I, of course, never found such severity endearing.
All of this is not to say that he was a humorless man. Far from it. My grandfather enjoyed sports and music. He loved card games, especially cribbage. At the time of his death our cribbage series was tied up, and I guess now that's the way it'll stay. Many older people find new ages and new things disturbing, but my grandfather truly seemed to enjoy the wonders of modern life. I installed his first modem and he'd surfed ever since. Until his condition deteriorated to make it impractical, he had an active daily routine that included shopping and socializing with neighbors he'd lived near for more than thirty years. His body gave out before his will did, and in that I think is to be found the most profound inspiration.
I didn't really know my grandfather very well. He was always sort of a remote figure, not only by distance, but by personality. I always got the feeling that he didn't like me very much, though he may simply have been that way with everyone. For my part I had no lack of respect for him, but admittedly I regarded him on a personal level no greater than he did me. Gruff criticsm was the tenor of most of our conversations, and he had such an objection to trivialities; trivialities that to me not only make life bearable, but indeed encapsulate the entire point of living. He saw the Great Depression and fought in World War II. Life was a struggle to him, and my desire to simply coast by must have struck him as exceedingly indulgent. I, of course, never found such severity endearing.
All of this is not to say that he was a humorless man. Far from it. My grandfather enjoyed sports and music. He loved card games, especially cribbage. At the time of his death our cribbage series was tied up, and I guess now that's the way it'll stay. Many older people find new ages and new things disturbing, but my grandfather truly seemed to enjoy the wonders of modern life. I installed his first modem and he'd surfed ever since. Until his condition deteriorated to make it impractical, he had an active daily routine that included shopping and socializing with neighbors he'd lived near for more than thirty years. His body gave out before his will did, and in that I think is to be found the most profound inspiration.