My Dad

My dad’s played a major role in my thoughts lately, in part because he is scheduled for back surgery on Wednesday (and I won’t be there) and in part because with the start of school I am trying to organize my family of five into a relaxed but efficient routine. Three children overwhelm me most times so I occasionally revisit my memories of Dad’s overwhelmed moments. These moments, while rare, demonstrate a human vulnerability that even the most easy going, worry-free, big hearted man can succumb to now and again. To give credit where it’s due, Dad’s moments often came on days when he worked from mid-night until eight in the morning and had to deal with six kids on very little sleep. My moments just come.

Dad liked to declassify himself from the family when things aggravated him when I was a kid. “You people,” he began, referring to all of his children but creating a wide berth between himself and his offspring, “live like pigs. You people are going to clean this house now.” I really disliked being referred to in such a manner but now I love using it.

“I don’t know who you people think is going to pick up your dirty dishes off of the table,” I say to my own children. The reference reinforces the strangers that sometimes replace my typically considerate, well-mannered children. And it’s difficult for a nine year old to quickly respond with a biting remark of her own. I remember.

According to Dad, we were the most energy-sucking, wasteful consumers on the planet. Like most children we enjoyed air-conditioning the neighborhood, leaving lights on just for the aggravation factor and purposefully depleting the water heater of hot water just to watch the electric meter spin as it heated more. Dad demonstrated with his thumb and forefinger (almost touching) the appropriate amount of water required for a bath.

“Yeah, if we displaced as much water in the tub as you do we wouldn’t use much water either,” we’d snicker. He showed no amusement and continued with his pursuits to keep us in check.

He made up for the water usage when he chose to do laundry. Mounds of dirty laundry accumulate quickly in a large family (and in an average family, I’ve learned) and Dad washed clothes in giant, unsorted batches. Dad washed but didn’t fold and after a long day at school and a hot walk from the bus stop Dad invited us to a clothes folding party. These solemn occasions included gathering your clothes from a huge mountain of washed garments and hoping that at least one of your school blouses or pairs of socks wasn’t a new shade of pink but remained white.

Dad cooked, too, in his larger than life manner. He knew how to make a good chicken andouille gumbo and served it with a warm, onion-filled German potato salad. When pressed for time Dad would quarter an onion and bell pepper with some ground meat, put it in the oven and call it a meatloaf. He turned a bunch of uneaten, over-ripe bananas into a mega dessert that, if enough willing people could be gathered to eat rotten bananas with vanilla wafers and vanilla pudding, would serve 50.

My parental skills in homework assistance will soon be tested by my middle schooler. Again I look into my past. Unfortunately for Dad, none of his children showed any real proficiency in math. A natural talent in all forms of mathematics Dad could not reduce concepts to a level that I could understand. I’d ask for help, producing a sheet of paper with a problem and a pencil and stand next to the brown rocking chair that clicked when he rocked waiting for instruction. Dad looked over the paper, took the pencil and scribbled out some numbers.

“Well, how did you get that, Dad?” I’d asked just as perplexed as when I first looked at the problem.
“It’s the answer,” he responded matter-of-factly.
“Yes, but we have to show our work.”
“What do you mean show your work?”
“You know. Write down all of the steps to get to the answer.”
“What steps? There’s the problem. There’s the answer.” He poked the paper with the pencil tip.
“But…”
“It’s the new math. We had a problem we put down the answer. All of this new math. I don’t get it.”

I’m going to play the “new math” card when Miren brings me a problem I can’t help her with.
“It’s the new math,” I’ll tell her, shrugging my shoulders. “We didn’t do it like this in my day.”

I’m giving Dad a hard time but really, he’s as good as they come. He thought nothing of taking a trip to Albuquerque for three weeks to play Alice to my brother’s Brady Bunch while my sister-in-law healed from a broken foot. He’ll babysit in Abita Springs or in Atlanta if asked. He’s spent many an hour at my house tearing down walls, putting up sheetrock, framing twelve on twelve pitched roofs or whatever menial tasks Craig hands him on our various house projects. He’s willingly played Captain Hook, Mr. McGregor and the Grim Reaper for my children’s various parties. He continually gives advice that calls us to not worry insisting that everything will work out. And he’s usually right. So, in Bob Marley’s words that echo Dad’s – good luck on Wednesday and
“Don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right
Singing don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right
Rise up this morning Smile with the rising sun
Three little birds Perched on my doorstep
Singing sweet songs Of melodies pure and true
Sayin, (this is my message to you-ou-ou)
Don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right
Singing don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right!”

- Love you Dad - Kara

Turning from Summer

We said good-bye to summer under a grey sky among the low brush of wild blueberry bushes at Graveyard Fields off of the Blue Ridge Parkway. The girls and I diligently picked berries while Rem picked and ate in complete imitation of his favorite storybook character, Little Sal. A few other people dotted the fields gathering berries and it took some searching at this very popular spot for ripe berries. Deep into the clumps of bushes, away from the footpaths and close to the ground sat deep blue juicy berries and we soon filled our bags. Rem moved toward the water content with his afternoon snack of blueberries (and, despite my warnings, red ones). Although the children had hoped to end the day swimming at the lower falls the crisp air and drops of rain sent us home after a brief wade in the frigid water.

The park sits empty and quiet this morning and except for the rhythmic pulsing music of the insects, Rem and I alone disturb the silence (Tam noiselessly chases a squirrel). The refreshing change of seasons, from summer to school, creates an energy that rejuvenates our family and puts me to rights again. Our schedule, although more rigid and with a great amount of chauffeuring, sits pre-determined throughout the week and offers a sense of organization that vanishes from our home during the summer. Rem returns to mornings with plenty of individual attention and together we chat about grass and bugs as we walk toward the swing and I notice how Rem’s vocabulary has grown.

“I am King Max,” he announces as I lift him into the swing and I push him in and out of weeks and over a year toward the wild things. Later, I will greet my fourth grader who approached the new school year with a maturity and excitement that both surprised and pleased me. She arrived at the piano first in the darkness on Tuesday. I traditionally sneak out of bed and to the piano to rouse the family with an exuberant (albeit painful) rendition of “Oh What a Beautiful Morning”, for the first day of school. Miren and Lise typically echo the verse from their beds and join me by the first chorus but only Lise showed up yesterday. Together we sang through three verses and choruses before the new middle-schooler added a sleepy voice to ours. (The father didn’t make a showing at all until minutes before they all trudged out the door loaded down with pristine notebooks and boxes of Kleenex).

Middle school feels like a new world to this parent. I take my cues from my daughter who acts nonplussed and at ease with the transition. And so will I, hoping all the while that this world is good to her and for her. A new chapter begins.

Architectural Travels

Recently, I stood under the wide, cantilevered carport of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Usonian gem, the Pope-Leighey house with Craig and the children and a handful of other tourists waiting to tour the 1400 square foot residence. Although not far from Falls Church, Virginia where the house originally stood the house has been rebuilt twice and is currently situated at the bottom of a gentle slope on grounds also owned by the National Trust for Historic Preservation and the early 19th century home, Woodlawn, offering a unique, juxtaposed study of the definition of home.

The Usonian house does not follow an expectation of architecture that can be found in Wright’s larger masterpieces where throngs of tourists marvel at Wright’s design and innovation. Even the clients who eagerly bought into Wrights idea of good design for the masses and were willing to implement them into their own lives were typically intellectuals of modest means - university professors, newspaper men - who understood Wright’s intent and subscribed to his philosophies wholeheartedly.

The people who gather at these poetic odes to organic simplicity resemble those individuals who sought Wright sixty, seventy years ago. Everyone wears with pride the other Usonian homes that they have visited. “Hanna House” rings from one end of the group before a couple lists a number of homes in Michigan and draws sighs with their finale, “Goetsch – Winkler.”

“My favorite,” Craig whispers.

Tours consist of numerous observations that compare and contrast various other Usonian homes to the current one. These groups also contain at least one young, idyllic, Natural Home quoting architect. Tour guides preach to the choir. No one seems bothered by the less than adequate (by today’s standard anyway) kitchen but all marvel at the play of light in the living spaces and the seamless connection the home has with its natural setting.

We packed Miren and Lise as babies into the car and drove them to Florence, Alabama for a personal, early tour of the Rosenbaum house renovation. They played contentedly under the carport while Craig studied every facet of the renovated home (including perusing through the large trash bins that held the construction debris from the process). They laughed with me at their father as we sat in the car in various places, Jackson, Chattanooga, the Mississippi Coast (pre-Katrina) and watched him knock on doors. We showed surprise and excitement as the owners graciously allowed Craig to show us the exquisitely simple living spaces.

Always willing participants on our architectural jaunts, Lise and Miren now display an interest that makes our explorations more fun. At first graciously, then more genuinely, they study the details of the Pope-Leighey house pointed out to them by their father. The horizontal lines that span the length of the house and converge into shelves for books on one side of the public space and for dishes on the other side warrant a quick discussion about visually expanding spaces. A quick lesson on the composition of flat roofs becomes tolerable with a gentle swing of the rain chains that hang nearby.

Perhaps the children and I enjoy the youthful exuberance and passion that Craig exhibits on such occasions more that the houses themselves. I see Craig and his work from many angles and to know that his love for architecture is so deeply rooted and intense enables me to see his designs (from sketches to built projects) with a deeper understanding. And more tolerable of the various design projects that occur to our ever evolving home.

Saying Good-bye to Karlota

With heavy hearts we bade Karlota good-bye today. The weeks that she spent with us flew at an unusually rapid pace and we spent a good bit of time last night in shared disbelief that our time with her was over. The tears only stopped after a hasty and difficult good-bye at the Charlotte airport when Rem continued to wave at every plane he saw in the sky shouting, “Hello, Karlota!”

Our good fortune began with our favorite international liaison, Sr. Marina. She beamed that her affection for both our family and her cousin’s daughter lead to the pairing. Once this young college student from Spain arrived in Asheville we felt additionally flattered that Sr. Marina thought to unite us with such a special young woman. Yet again, this beloved family friend ingratiated herself to us in her thoughtfulness.

Miren and Lise have already declared this summer the best ever. Miren pointed out the many firsts that this summer provided her, among them Sliding Rock and white water rafting. Firsts, that when brought to mind, will also recall Karlota who so willingly partook in everything we presented. Lise relished the independent afternoons spent at the pool, three girls just hanging out (under Karlota’s watchful eye and undivided attention). Rem appreciated having an extra actor around to play Hook to his Peter Pan. He enjoyed Karlota’s willingness to wear the necessary accessories and the enthusiasm she exhibited at every duel.

Karlota fell easily into our family routine and her presence with our family became natural. She lingered in conversation at the dinner table with Craig and me long after the food and the children were gone. She shared stories about her life and in them revealed a deep love for her family and the Basque country. Karlota good-naturedly endured Craig’s long love ballads for Spanish soccer and encouraged our silly attempts at Spanish.

The days may have sped by but the impression Karlota made on all of us will endure and now we look ahead to the fulfillment of the parting words, “I hope to see you soon”!