The World According to Chuck

Thanksgiving sent us all into a funk, although I didn’t realize it until last night and there were other things, as always.

The transition in our tradition was sudden; Beth was away at school, and her grandparents, for that reason and just a disinclination to travel anymore, have been AWOL from our table for six years now. So it became just the three of us, sometimes a fourth. Last year, though, we were brightened by Beth, home on a whim and to see a sober daddy, who was also in a sling at the time. We had a great time, making one-handed pies (me) late on Wednesday, and then the girls in the kitchen all morning while I tried to stay out of the way.

So this was a shock, and different, and while we had a nice meal at a friends’ house (and no dishes to clean, or at least we didn’t offer), I know now I should have gotten up early, lit a fire and turned on a football game, something. As it was, Julie took a nap, John played a game, I went for a walk, and the day was done, poof, as if it never really happened.

And I hurt my ankle (walking 10 miles a day? You think?), curious and annoying. As a doctor once wrote, the secret that they and their wives know is that most things get better by themselves, and most things will actually be better by morning. This was my philosophy, anyway, so I continued to walk, limping a little, and sure enough it got better every day, although it still swells and stiffens when I stay still.

Don’t stay still, then.

We did hear from Beth, her first real solo Thanksgiving, her first in Boston, a marathon of cooking. Things went well, including Dad’s Super-Secret Turkey Roasting Trick, which involves basting, as you can see.

So she survived, obviously, and I guess we survived.

Rosie did not.

Cameron and Beth lost their lady on Friday, in a rush of horror and blood and a late-night race to the vet, not unexpected but too soon and too hard, always. I never met this graceful creature but Julie and John did and I felt her, across the country, felt her there and felt her go, and we grieve with them.

I had to learn had to not stay still, at an advanced age, how to keep moving and see each morning as a daily reprieve, how to find hope in sunrises and movement in grief. Others do it more naturally, but we all end up just walking. My daughter has a handle on this; my son, too, in his way. I, as I said, am still learning.

One of the things I’ve learned, by the way, is why I walk. All this talk and blogging about the scale, about watching my weight, about numbers and days, was not the point, although it took me a while to figure it out. Thanks to Meg and some others for helping me understand.

It was an easy call, of course. Overweight? Lose it, good idea, a no-brainer. But that wasn’t it, and it wasn’t about fitting into old jeans or preening or surprising my doctor or wooing my wife, all good things but not all that important.

I found out why on Wednesday, when that damn ankle was hurting like hell, when I’d done four miles and was on the last leg, uphill toward home, gritting my teeth and wondering, and finding out then.

I spent a relaxing spring and summer, and then as I reached one year without a drink I started to move again; I registered for classes, I started thinking out loud, I started looking.

And I looked at myself, and I saw 70 pounds that needed to go, and I knew that it would be hard to do.

I wanted to do something hard.

That’s why.

I won’t let Christmas slide by. We’ll get the tree up, and the fires lit, and the songs going. We’ll keep it this year, I promise, even if it’s just the three of us. The three of us have done some amazing things together.

And I’ll keep walking, around the lake, morning and evening, ankle and all, because it’s hard sometimes. Besides, I like the fresh air, the Christmas lights are out, there’s actually a hint of snow in the air, and the dogs I meet along the way all seem more precious now, somehow.

(First published on November 21, 2001)

I love Thanksgiving. I always have, ever since I was a kid. It’s way better than Christmas. Once the presents are opened Christmas fades quickly, but turkey sandwiches can last a week or more if you’re careful.

Here in the Sigars household, Thanksgiving season usually starts the week before, officially begun when my wife says, “OHMYGOD, MY PARENTS WILL BE HERE IN TWO DAYS AND THERE’S MOLD GROWING ON THE COUCH!” And so we all pitch in, and while I love my in-laws and always enjoy their visits, clean bathrooms are a special treat, too.

We’re pretty traditional, with a big turkey and dressing and pies and a lot of stuff I eat even though I’m not sure exactly what it is. We say grace and talk about what we’re thankful for, and we watch the Cowboys play. My in-laws are Texans, and on Thanksgiving we’re all Dallas fans.

Once, in 1986, we had Thanksgiving in Texas and the Cowboys were playing the Seahawks, and to our horror the Hawks won. Just creamed them. And while my wife’s family was polite and said nice things about the game, I remember we had to hitch a ride to the airport and didn’t get Christmas cards from them for a couple of years. Texans take their football very seriously.

Food, football, and family. And I have a lot to be thankful for, as always. But just now, as I was sitting at the computer here thinking about Thanksgiving, I noticed something that reminded me how complicated gratitude can be sometimes.

When I was a kid, I loved to go visit my Grandma Baker. She’d always give me paper and pencil and I’d sit at her kitchen table and write stuff. When I got a bit older she’d let me use her typewriter, and I’d peck out stories about Batman or Daniel Boone or whatever my latest television-inspired interest was.

One day, when I was on a Zorro kick, I sat down and began an involved, complicated plot that as I recall involved a train robbery and a kidnapping and lots of sword fights and possibly time travel. My typing skills were pretty primitive, of course, and when my parents announced it was time to go, I was only a quarter of the way through my story and just coming to the good part, and I burst into tears.

Grandma stepped in. She told my folks she’d take me home later, and she fed me a nice dinner and then sat down at the typewriter and had me dictate my Zorro story to her as she typed it.

I should note that my grandmother was a complicated person. She’d led a pretty rough life, and could be an opinionated and sharp-tongued woman at times. As I grew older she made me uncomfortable and I tried to avoid her. This was a rotten thing to do but I did it, and I hurt her feelings a lot.

Once, when I was about 25, I’d been thoughtless once again to Grandma and I wrote her a letter. I apologized, and I thanked her for that time when I was a kid. She wrote back, telling me that of course she forgave me, that she remembered the Zorro thing too, and that she thought sometimes the two of us just didn’t understand each other. This was a gracious thing to say, and true enough, I guess.

She’s been gone quite a while now, but my dad’s stepfather died only two years ago. As my parents went about the chore of straightening his affairs, they found that he had kept almost everything he and my grandmother had accumulated over the years. As things were disposed of, they asked if any of the kids wanted something as a keepsake before they sold it or gave it away.

So now, on my desk, sits a gray 1955 Remington manual typewriter. As I work at the computer it’s visible in the corner of my eye. If I squint a little, I can almost see an 8-year-old boy hunched over the keyboard, slowly typing his stories. I keep it there to remind me how a single act of kindness can resonate over the years. It’s a good thing to remember.

I’m glad I thanked her. It occurred to me today, though, that sometimes being grateful comes with responsibility, even if it’s subtle. Sometimes it’s just accepting our good fortune and being aware of those who have less. Sometimes it’s about passing a good deed along to someone else. And sometimes it’s about debt, and implied promises.

As she drove me home that night, my grandma told me that I was a good little writer, and that she was sure someday I would write something just for her.

I can’t tell you how sorry I am that it took this long.

When Beth was 3, we got her a chocolate bunny for Easter. Using parental skills that I apparently lost fairly soon thereafter, I doled it out to her, bit by bit, every day after lunch, making a (gross but anatomically enlightening) game out of it: “Today we get a bunny ear! Today we get a bunny foot!”

After a time, of course, we pretty much had bunny fragments left. One day, toward the end of this, I scrounged around for a piece of milk chocolate goodness and found a nondescript section left. Beth took it, surveyed the offering, and sneered as only a preschooler can sneer.

“What is this,” she said, “the bunny butt?”

Quick: Did you laugh?

Or did you just smile, or maybe nod, or maybe do nothing?

This is the problem with offspring wit and wisdom. Kids can be awfully funny, but it’s mostly contextual and situational (you sorta had to be there, I mean; and maybe be related to them). So I generally groan and/or avert my eyes when I start reading (or listening to) parents’ accounts of the comic gems their little darlings issue forth like so many miniature Will Rogers(es). It’s hard to do well.

This lady does it well.

This is (stolen from)The Drunken Housewife, a blog written by a smart, funny, insightful (and probably sober, although I have no inside information) woman in the Bay area (thanks to Hugh Elliott for pointing me her way) that I read faithfully. She writes about her life, her politics, her ongoing battle with the contractor from hell, and occasionally things her kids say, which are usually highlights (I look forward to my Lola moments).

And TODAY IS HER BIRTHDAY. So stop by and wish her well if you are of a mind. And definitely make her a daily read.

Of note: I’m horrible at estimating ages from sight, so I constantly find myself mentally adding up odd facts and references to try to figure out how old someone is, but with the D. Housewife I’m at a loss. She maybe one of us, an official uberboomer (making her at least 43), or well younger; I really don’t know. But I’ll let her in the group, officially or un-, since I like the way she writes. And I’m fond of Lolaisms.

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I’m having issues with time management lately, which is why I haven’t posted much lately (or that’s my story, anyway). Papers are due, I’m sucking it up and working for a living, chapters still need to be read, lame columns need to be written, and of course I spend an awful lot of time on the road these days.

The road that runs by my house, I mean. I’m up to 9 miles a day and becoming a walking junkie, but then I’m on a mission. And the weather is fabulous today. And I meet nice people on the way. And occasionally turn the iPod up WAY TOO LOUD to be safe.

But if you’re interested still in the My Loss Is America’s Gain project…

Forty pounds lost so far. Catch you at 50, if not before.

Probably before.

Where we ask the question: Why do people park on my lawn?

They do, too. In fact, a year or so ago a friend gave me a ride home from a meeting and I invited him to come in for a bit. As I tried to direct him into a proper parking location, he decided to park his car in the middle of my lawn. Seriously. Right in the middle of the lawn.

And this guy lives in Bellevue, where (I believe) parking on a lawn will get you the death penalty.

Most of the people who do it are Julie’s students, and to be fair they only park a little bit on the lawn. But they do, and even though I don’t lose any sleep over it I wonder. In my mind, it’s as if I were to come over to your house and nonchalantly pee on the pool table. It’s not right.

Soda! Friday, by the way, refers to the message I found on the dry erase board today, where John likes to leave requests. Since he sometimes wanders during the night, he kindly leaves us notes, often with emphasis, listing his demands, usually erasing any information previously on the board, including phone numbers and important federal tax information.

So today it was Soda!, although he just means flavored carbonated water, which I managed to switch him to this fall. I don’t mind buying it for him, since it has no sugar (or calories), just bubbles, but it was a little disconcerting to get up from a nap and see it screaming! at me.

I took a nap because I was up to the wee hours, earning money, and so was a little deprived! in the sleep department. That, or else the short days and dark clouds are sending me under the covers. It can happen to people.

With 10 hours of daylight at most, at least one of my daily walks is in the dark, a lesson in caution and sometimes an exploration of ditches that maybe weren’t there the day before, hard to say. I should probably wear some of that orange reflective tape, but I have some sort of genetic aversion to looking like a dork, so I just stay on my toes.

Speaking of walks, and their raison d’être: There’s been some discussion in the comments (and in e-mail and, I’m guessing, my imagination) about what exactly I’m doing with all this exercising and scale gazing. So let me clear that up.

I don’t know.

I mean, I’m on an adventure, people. Sometimes there are not words.

Particularly this sometime. It’s hard on me, actually. I mean, if I’m a writer, and I can’t put into words what I’m thinking and feeling, do I really exist? Do I matter? Can I eat pizza again?

Most of this has to do with the fact that it’s such a mundane subject. Yeah, another middle-aged guy attempting to regain his thin thighs and dusting off his Bee Gees albums, annoying 30-something women and buying Viagra and Axe by the case.

And part of the problem is I write very thin. It’s sort of a gift. The truth is, I got really, really fat. It’s not inconceivable (inconceivable!) even that I could have moved into the morbidly obese category in a few years, given the right circumstances and enough mozzarella cheese.

I don’t think so, but it was conceivable. Really, really fat. There was a picture taken of me at a party in late July that I saw recently. I’ll post that when I’m really thin, or posthumously, whatever comes first. Really, really fat.

But there’s more, and that’s what I can’t find the words for. I’m not doing this for vanity, health or comfort, although those all apply to some degree. It’s something else. It’s…something else. See what I mean?

I appreciate the good wishes, though. Every pound off is another year of glorious life (I made that statistic up, but I really like it), and I’m enjoying walking around the house in my underwear again. Particularly if “You Should Be Dancing” is on. And I’ll write about what’s going on one of these days.

At the moment, though, dry erase board says “Mac and Cheese!” I believe this is a sign, and I believe in signs, and I believe in cheese, which is sort of the best I can do at the moment. Also, I have to check the lawn and maybe let the air out of some tires, depends.