A father’s legacy

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379369727_c28991d7bd_z.jpgI don’t seem to be able to think of my father at the
socially prescribed times, like his birthday or the anniversary of his death,
but Father’s Day is coming up and that has me thinking about my own legacy as a
father, and that makes me think of his as well. As the kids say, it’s
complicated.

He was a good man, and not a terribly good one. He was
generous to a fault, and wasted much of his life in bars. He knew how to build
things but lacked patience. He was inarticulate, uneducated, and embarrassed
about it, and he was massively proud that I turned out differently. He’s been
gone longer than I knew him, but even at the time he died I felt like I had an
incomplete picture of him, and not nearly enough memories.

What was expected of fathers started to change in the ’60s
and ’70s, when I was growing up, and so it’s fair to say that the transition
was confusing for many men. For a long time I just accepted that that was how
it was, and he definitely did come from a different time. He was one of ten
kids in a family where the father, 50 years old when my dad was born, was often
working in a distant city. There wasn’t a lot of father-son bonding. Or any, as
far as I know. So to my father, the amount of time we spent together probably
felt extravagant. But for the most part, it wasn’t time together; it was time
when he needed to go somewhere, and I’d come along. Mostly where he needed to
go was bars, the old dank neighborhood bars that barely exist anymore.
Sometimes there were other places: auto repair shops, the lumber yard, the
barber shop. We fished together a couple of times, and two or three times he drove
us on my scout troop’s annual trip to Lake Placid, but otherwise he wasn’t
there. It was up to someone else’s father to perfect my Frisbee throw or to
give me my first good fishing reel.

It seemed perfectly normal to me then, something any kid
might do, to accompany my father into bars and wait while he drank. These were
all places that knew him, where he knew everyone, and he was welcomed and
greeted. I learned later that a barfly’s welcome isn’t worth much: when he
died, people I thought were his friends couldn’t rouse themselves to come to
the funeral, but instead waved at the procession as we drove past the tavern.
But to him, these were his favorite places, and he probably felt sharing it
with me was a good thing. I’d get dimes or quarters to play the jukebox and the
bowling machine, I’d get the tiny glass of soda mixed with grenadine
embarrassingly and unfailingly called a Shirley Temple, and a bag of Wise potato
chips or Slim Jims. And then I’d just sit and wait and watch him leaning
against the bar, chatting with the other drunk men about nothing whatsoever.
And somehow I believed it was perfectly normal, despite the fact that I rarely,
if ever, saw another boy in those places.

My strongest memories of him are the smells: the powerful
mix of diesel and cigarettes that clung to his work clothes, the whiskey and
beer on his breath at the end of absolutely every single day, the pungent cool
smell of stale beer soaked into the floorboards of ancient taverns. Images of
him are harder to find (and actual photographs, in a family that viewed film as
an exotic and unjustifiable expense, harder still), but to this day if I smell
rotting lettuce, which he often reeked of after a day of hauling produce for
Central Markets, I instantly think of my father.

He was sweet in many ways. He tried to be interested in the
things that interested me, and was always polite and kind to my friends. He
adored my wife and insisted she would have a wedding ring even though we were
too progressive to believe in such things. He was supremely willing to help
when help was needed.

He was stupidly young when he died, 48, and he died because
he drank and smoked, especially smoked, despite very bad asthma and a lot of
signs from his body that maybe it was time to straighten up. He didn’t. A few
years ago I found myself at his grave in rageful tears, so angry that he wasn’t
here to see his grand-daughters, and it was entirely his doing.

And so I think about the legacy, the memories my girls will
have of me. I lived nearly 18 years with my father, he died when I was almost
25, and as I said, even then my memories were scant. I have tried, not always
with success, to be present, to be there when I’m there, and not to be
distracted by the electronics and things that make it easy to divert our
attention. We have done a tremendous amount of things together, close to home,
around the state and even a bit beyond, and each one seems to elicit a very
specific memory for them, and I just hope those memories remain. I was blessed
with a period of time when I was home nearly every day, and we learned to cook
and bake together, to dance around the kitchen, and to just enjoy each other.
I’m touched beyond belief when my older daughter texts me with a question she
could easily have Googled, and when she thanks me for teaching her to solder
and how to wash dishes. I’m touched beyond belief when my younger daughter
squees with excitement that we’ll be returning to a campground we visited many
times when she was young and fell out of using, because I know her experience
of that place, and our being there together will always be with her.

The curse of home repair

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Renovations DSC_5946.jpg

I’m never sure whether to thank or curse my father for whatever he taught me about carpentry. My mother’s father and grandfather were carpenters, my father was a carpenter for a period of time, and all through my life, if something needed doing on the house, we did it ourselves. So I’m cursed with just enough knowledge to believe I can do almost anything myself (except I know I’m bad with concrete), just enough skill to get by (though in my sixth decade, I’m almost good at it), and a hatred of paying contractors outrageous rates to do something I can do myself. So when estimates for replacing our 72-year-old porch came in somewhere in the stratosphere, my wife asked, “Well, can you do this?” Uh, yeah. Sorta.

The challenge with house carpentry is that if you don’t do it all the time, you don’t really know how to do it. You just know how to figure it out. Figuring it out takes a lot longer. And because it’s my house, and my yard, I’m way more careful about the demolition part, especially the millions of nails and shards of glass that come from demolishing a glassed-in porch. I’d like to walk in the yard again someday, so I have to try to be careful about where the pointy stuff lands. (Can’t get that from a contractor).

A few minor technological revolutions have made this vastly easier than any other project I’ve undertaken. First, let me sing the praises of the laser-guided chop saw. Somehow I’ve gotten by for more than 20 years of home ownership without a chop saw, and no, I don’t know why, but man am I glad I have one now. There is a little red laser light that tells me precisely where the blade will cut. It is unbelievable. If I make a mistake, it is only in measuring, no longer in figuring out where the kerf will be. No need to get out the square and draw a cut line — just find the right measure, mark it, line it up with the laser, and chop away. Not to mention that I get the perfect square cuts that always seem to elude me on the table saw.

Second, I finally invested in a new tape measure with engineer’s marks. This means it’s in English measures, but provides decimal fractions of feet. Instead of having to figure out English fractions (and divide them, which is always the challenge), I measure something out as 4.1 feet. Still in feet, with the easy math of metric. Flaming brilliant. (Though I will ask, why have all tape measures gotten so thick? The smallish-handed among us can hardly maneuver the things.)

Third, I invested in a new Milwaukee drill/driver, with the hope that when its batteries can no longer take a charge I’ll be able to get replacements . . . which has not been true for the past two Craftsman drills I’ve had. And not only does this magnificent device show me how much charge is in the battery, it shines a brilliant LED light right on the space I’m drilling. Suddenly, I can see what I’m doing as soon as I put up the drill, instead of having it block the light. So obvious, so brilliant.

Last but not least, the very process of ordering the major parts, doors and windows, has become considerably simpler because you can download all the dimensions and specifications from the internet, figure out your spacing and what will fit there, and start to draw up your plans before you even set foot in the home improvement store. When you order windows every decade or two, it’s a bit of a daunting task, but being able to read through all the specifications and installation instructions makes it much easier.

So if you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m lashed to my laser-guided chop saw.

Bike commuting as religion: I’m doing it wrong

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Irene gave my bike a filthy.

Irene gave my bike a filthy (Photo credit: carljohnson)

Too many people seem to think that cycling, like veganism,
should be an annoying pseudoreligion, with right and wrong ways to do it, a
feeling of moral superiority, and a need to proselytize. Bike commuters,
perhaps the smallest transportation minority in this country outside of people
who dogsled to work, are among the worst offenders. Well, I’m a bike commuter, and
I’m here to tell you there is no right way, it doesn’t make me a better person,
and I frankly don’t care whether anyone else does it. It makes no difference to
me whether you turn a pedal before and after your daily wage-slavery, but I will share a
few observations from a year of biking to work.

  • The bus is cheaper. Much. Bus fare: $1.50, and I can carry
    my coffee in with me. The bike sets me back as soon as I have to buy that first
    cup of coffee in the morning. There’s also the matter of commuting shoes (I am
    a pedal snob, and need to be clipped in with the ironically named “clipless”
    pedals), rainpants, winter gloves, and an array of lights designed to confuse
    motorists enough to notice that I exist. However, my bus is being cancelled, and
    the nearest one is a 10-minute walk away, so this economic point is moot.
  • It is a most unsatisfying ride. In my case, it’s under four
    miles each way, barely worth the time it takes to prepare. The first half is down, there’s a hump over the Dunn Bridge in
    the middle, and then a steep climb, all on a heavy bike with a lot of gear I
    have to carry back and forth. The Dunn has the charm of a Soviet office block
    and detracts from what should be a lovely view of the Hudson. In the dead of
    winter I start by freezing and end up in a steam bath of my own making. There are logistics, with packing of lunch, making sure I have phones, carrying all I may need and nothing I don’t. After
    every ride there are wipes and birdbaths and much changing of clothes.Any road ride is more enjoyable.
  • Staying warm is not the problem. I have a neck gaiter, a
    helmet liner and good long-fingered gloves, and wear a layer less than if I
    were going to take a walk in the same temperature. Staying dry is more of an
    issue, and generally if you wear rainproof gear, it rains inside as much as
    outside.I now have rainpants that cost more than any dress pants I have ever owned.
  • I used to work in a building full of athletes, and getting
    on the elevator while carrying a helmet and perhaps in bike-friendly clothes
    (and we’re not even talking spandex shorts) did not raise a lot of eyebrows. I
    no longer work in a building full of athletes, and people go out of their way
    not to share the elevator with me, even on days when I’m sure I do not offend.
  • Rush-hour drivers are in too much of a hurry to fuck with
    you. So while they won’t give you an extra inch to avoid horrible potholes or
    sunken grates, they’re also not inclined to suddenly lay on their horns, lean out
    their windows and scream, or throw things out their windows. Cyclists are the
    battered spouses of transportation, and so we interpret a failure to try to
    kill us as some kind of love.
  • Riding somewhere for lunch is a tremendous delight. Being
    able to get to a place that’s not even a mile away but just too far to walk
    during lunchtime makes an enormous difference in my day, especially if I get to
    sit outside and enjoy my lunch with my wheels.  Thanks to CDTA’s bike rack map, I can always
    find out if there’s a place to lock my bike, too.

I am not a better human being because of this. Many days, I
ride my bike across the river just to get into my SUV and drive right back over
to pick up my daughter from dance class. I know this makes Al Gore cry, and I’m
okay with that. I am, however, a happier human being, even after a miserable
hot or rainy ride, because I spent an hour riding my bike that otherwise would
have just been more time spent in my car. And an hour riding a bike is better
than just about anything else.

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Well, there’s your problem

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Mapmyride Dunn bridge weird states.png

As could be expected, news that there would be more construction on I-787 and the Patroon Island brought out vehement comments in opposition to doing anything at all to maintain these structures when there just must be a better way. Why can’t we wait and spend this money later when we have a magic solution to this overbuilt monstrosity?

Now I know why we can’t wait. As this capture from Google maps (as fed to Mapmyride.com) proves, the failure to finish the South Mall Arterial finally led to a rip in the space-time continuum. One side of the Dunn bridge is actually U.S. Route 20 in Illinois, and the other side is U.S. Route 20 in Nebraska. Obviously, failure to fix this immediately could mean the end of life as we know it, or at least some very unexpected detours through the midwest. So now do you think that $20 million is well-spent?

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Mysteries

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Albany Street View.pngSometimes you find amazing and inexplicable things on Google Street View. This scene is from Albany, just above Washington Park.

There’s a story here somewhere.

Eloquence

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Symbol of the "New York Society for the S...

Symbol of the “New York Society for the Suppression of Vice”, advocating book-burning. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Eloquence in the face of stupidity, rage and hate touches me more than almost anything else. So please take a moment to read Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.’s 1973 letter to the chairman of the school board in Drake, North Dakota, who felt that burning books was somehow what our children should aspire to. It’s not surprising to me, in that terrible, volatile time of war, racial tensions, and economic distress, that some would decide that burning books was the way to shape the world in their own image. But it’s endlessly distressing to me that, nearly 40 years later, hardly anything is different.

Here’s an excerpt from what Vonnegut wrote to that school board chairman:

“After I have said all this, I am sure you are still ready to respond, in
effect, ‘Yes, yes – but it still remains our right and our responsibility
to decide what books our children are going to be made to read in our
community.’ This is surely so. But it is also true that if you exercise
that right and fulfill that responsibility in an ignorant, harsh,
un-American manner, then people are entitled to call you bad citizens
and fools. Even your own children are entitled to call you that.

“I read in the newspaper that your community is mystified by the outcry
from all over the country about what you have done. Well, you have
discovered that Drake is a part of American civilization, and your
fellow Americans can’t stand it that you have behaved in such an
uncivilized way. Perhaps you will learn from this that books are sacred
to free men for very good reasons, and that wars have been fought
against nations which hate books and burn them. If you are an American,
you must allow all ideas to circulate freely in your community, not
merely your own.”

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.’s books meant more to me as an adolescent than any other author. In his later years, he seemed to me to be a cranky old man, but now I’m starting to see his point. In any event, read his entire and entirely beautiful letter over here, at Letters of Note.

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He who lives by the bridge . . . .

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Location: Patroon Island Bridge over the Hudso...

Location: Patroon Island Bridge over the Hudson River in Albany, New York Description: Looking North, up the Hudson River to the Patroon Island Bridge from just north of the boat launch in Rensselaer, New York. April 11, 2006 Category:Images of New York (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I want my bridges not to collapse. Really, I do. Living in Rensselaer County and needing to find a way across the Hudson every day, I appreciate every dollar of maintenance that goes into the second Dunn Memorial (though sometimes I wish it were still a low-rise lift bridge) and the Patroon Island Bridge. I want them to stay up, and I’m aware that’s been a challenge. But working on both of them in the same year? Urgggh. All that traffic has to go somewhere — can’t go south, we’re out of bridges until Hudson (and out of free bridges until forever). North really doesn’t work, have to go all the way up to the Troy-Menands bridge for another opportunity to cross. (And the next bridge up, the Congress Street bridge, will also be under renovations this year.) I can still bike across the Dunn (despite massive tearing up of Broadway in Rensselaer), but if anyone wants to come with me, we may need to figure out how to run a kayak ferry across to the ballet school.

Add to this that the main road by our house, the only road that easily lets us go in the other direction away from the bridge, the only road that would connect us to Troy and stay on this side of the river, is about to close for construction, and I’m feeling a little bit hemmed in. Better start reading those tide charts carefully.

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This is what counts

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CJ Lee wedding stairs.jpg

For some reason I have tripped upon a lot of wedding-related writing in the past few days, and it just amazes me how insane people let it make them. I’ve long said that if people put anywhere near the amount of effort into the marriage that they put into the wedding, there’d be far fewer divorces.

I was looking for something else and ran across this photo from our wedding. It was 1983. We were married in our apartment on a cold November afternoon by a judge we didn’t know. A few friends and family came. She made that dress. We’re so young, and she’s so beautiful, that it breaks my heart. Of course, we had no idea what we were getting into. No one does. It’s been as easy as breathing, except for the parts that were awful and hard and painful. But I liked the hard parts, too, because we shared them, came through them, and now there’s just nothing we can’t get through.

A short ceremony in our apartment followed by a nice dinner in a restaurant we liked, a delightful evening out with friends and family. Was it a dream wedding? It’s the marriage that counts.

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