A Museum and My Family

Hemingway said you should never travel with a person unless you love them. I took his advice, and Kristin and I flew to DC. 

Hemingway is right about love and travel. Kristin sees the world in a different way than I do. Occasionally, she offers me a glimpse of how different we are and the only thing I can do is smile or sometimes smile and shake my head. It could be different, and I suspect it is for some people. I do not envy them. I love that she packs nail polish, that she drinks a lot of tea before we board the plane and then has to go to the bathroom minutes later. I love that she always worries about being too hot so she never brings a sweater anywhere and then winds up being cold. I bring a sweater everywhere. I love that on our first trip to DC she packed three baseball hats (to match different outfits) and multiple purses (same reason). I genuinely do love this.

Kristin walked on to the plane that would take us from Austin to Chicago and said, "it smells like a grandmother's house...like old moth balls...you know?" I nodded; I know what old moth balls smell like, though never once have I associated them with Granny. You see what I mean? 

About an hour in to our first flight, I looked over and saw this:

Here's what's happening: 

1) my sweater has become a full-body blanket, or a tent 

2) Kristin is curled up on a seat that fat people can barely fit in to, hiding beneath my sweater

3) I am standing in the aisle taking a photo. 

A stewardess came by and noticed me taking a photo and then saw Kristin. Actually, she couldn't see Kristin and that's why she stopped to talk to me. In a southern accent, the stewardess said she'd never seen anyone "do something quite like that." She said that as if there were four a's in it: thaaat. We looked at Kristin the whole time we spoke, then agreed it was best we didn't try to do what Kristin was doing because we might injure ourselves. 

Time went by too quickly once we arrived. The dinners were fantastic. I love being home; I tried to stay in the house, to just sit and talk and be around as much as possible. But I loved the dinner and lunch at J. Pauls, the walk along Rock Creek, the beers at The Heights, walking through Target with Lilly. It was a wonderful week. I discovered that I like whisky better when Dad's having a glass with me; just as I've discovered (quite a few times) that beer is nicer when I'm having one with Joe. I discovered that Lilly asks why? about everything and I usually only have the patience for three or four why's? and then I'd smile and go into the kitchen or to the basement and tell myself that a three year old was not going to get the better of me. I'd come back up, ready with an answer, but she'd moved on and was asking Joef to help her build a snowman.

Mom would sing to Jack and then talk to Lilly about why the plants didn't need any more water, and then Mom would be in the kitchen and say to me that I hadn't had enough to eat yet and could she make me something? So little of Gigi's day is spent thinking about Gigi, so much of it is spent radiating love. 

Amelia was sober for most of the time, which was nice. She has a way with Lilly that is so wonderful, and of course with Jack too. Watching Amelia has forever changed the word mother and its meaning; for the first time I'm seeing what it takes to raise children. It is amazing what she does, and I am thankful for the bits I have gotten to watch. I

Ellie has a way with Lilly, too. There is a part of Lilly that Ellie understands better than anyone except Amelia and Jim, and it shows in the games Ellie and Lilly play together, the songs they sing, the look that will every so often come on one of their faces. When Ellie wasn't asking Lilly if she was a girl or a Muppet, Ellie went for long runs in preparation for a half-marathon. That race is today. I'm excited to hear the post-race report; she'll be the first person I know to run 13.1 on three different continents. 

I wish Joe could have heard the conversations about him when he wasn't around. Most of them were positive. 

I'm kidding, of course. He does so much good for the right reasons. The Pakistan offer, the baseball road trip -- Dad calls it justice and we all agreed. 

And Dad was Dad. He continues to be the best man I know.

Kristin and I flew out on Tuesday, so on Monday we decided to go with Mom to see the American History Smithsonian Museum; our tourist activity for the week.

We arrived, parked in a surprisingly close spot, and after having our bags inspected and walking through a metal detector, we were allowed in. It was free, which surprised me; places still charge for wireless internet. 

We wandered about the museum and found our way to the First Ladies section on the third floor. 

There are some amazing dresses, but it is hard to notice anything except how hideously ugly some of these women were. I know times are different, but there simply had to better options. Nancy Reagan and Jackie Kennedy were both pretty. The rest were forgettable. A select few were absolute beasts.

Martha Washington set a precedent that it was ok for the First Lady to be ugly. George Washington was a military hero, a political genius, a Founding Father -- he could have done better. Dad suggested that when the candles were out it wouldn't have been so bad for George and I think there's some truth in that. But either the artist who drew this disliked Martha (and so did the museum director who chose this for her picture), or the artist was being kind and somehow made her less hideous. It's hard to imagine the latter.  

Why is the focus of this drawing on her face? 

Abigail is a step up from Martha, but that's not saying much. She looks like she would spend a good part of her day nagging in a shrill, terrible voice. John! JOHN! JOOOOHHHNNN! Come look at what a mess John Quincy has made! 

Sarah Polk's face is as forgettable as her husband's Presidency. Her hair looks greasy, too.  

Mary Todd Lincoln was a beast. This picture of her isn't bad compared to the others, and that's saying something. One of her dresses was on display and she looked to be a short, wide woman. No wonder Abe spent so much time reading. 

*There seems to be a theme here -- two of the greatest presidents had dogs for wives. Now, as Sarah Polk proves, having a dog for a wife doesn't guarantee a president will be great, or even memorable. My theory is that knowing an ugly woman is waiting for you in bed inspires you to work longer and love your work in a way you can't love your wife. These long hours and love of work then allow you as a President to develop an attachment to the job that a healthy sex life would have otherwise killed. 

Kristin's take on Ida McKinley: "she actually looks like a man." I agree. Ida's hair is regrettable and her face is masculine. If you drew a mustache on Ida, photo-shopped in a dress shirt and tie, she'd pass for a little-known congressman at the turn of the century. 

Woodrow Wilson upgraded during his term. Granted, Edith isn't much of an upgrade, but she's younger than Ellen and smiling. I wonder why more presidents haven't done this (my guess is plenty of presidents have done this, but Woodrow had the stones to make it official). 

And then there's Florence Harding. She must have had a great personality.

Helen Taft looks like the photographer just made a fat joke about her husband. You can see Ellen in this photo, and together they look miserable. 

Jackie Kennedy's photo follows Mamie Eisenhower's, which makes Mamie seem even uglier. I'm surprised the photographer didn't ask Mamie to sit a bit farther away -- minimize the emphasis of that schnoz and her ears.   

There were other exhibits. 

In one exhibit where they displayed a bit of everything -- from Dorothy's shoes in The Wizard of Oz to Ben Franklin's walking stick to a Roberto Clemente jersey -- they had this interactive station:

You could write a response in pencil and pin it up on the wall. The responses told you more about America than any exhibit in the museum. 

Right out of the gate, a Hitler reference. It's a bit too vague to be of much help -- his body? his uniform? a signed copy of Mein Kampf? 

And beneath that is Freddy Sanchez, which I'm guessing is a reference to the San Francisco Giants' injured second basemen. Odd place for him to pop up (baseball pun intended).

My favorite response. There is a museum with plenty of "Native American stuff" -- it's called the National Museum of the American Indian. 

A nice jab at the Cubs, which I always appreciate. And a drawing of a penis above it. Well done, America. 

Indiana Jones is misspelled, but I agree with the kid. Criss Angel is misspelled, too. He's a magician with his own tv show and refers to himself as "Mind Freak". What makes him a significant part of American history?

Not a bad idea, but I think the ball is in the Baseball Hall of Fame, in Canton. The only one on the entire board that wasn't stupid. 

Queen Victoria, the monarch of Britain, wouldn't belong anywhere in the American History Museum. Neither would her crown. 

We had to stop at another interactive area because Kristin was getting bored. Here, she stood in front of a look-a-like Presidential podium and recited Reagan's famous speech about the Berlin Wall. 

From the monitor, she actually looked like Reagan. 

We kept exploring. 

This is a casting of Abe Lincoln's hands. I thought it photo-worthy because those hands helped write, quite literally, American history. He held a broom handle during the casting process because his hand was swollen from shaking so many hands the day before. An amazing man, though I still don't know what he saw in Mary Todd. 

The hat Lincoln was wearing at Ford's Theater. 

Another opportunity to engage museum visitors that I photographed:

If someone sent me that piece to edit, I would gladly do so. The part about her brother's relationship is unnecessary dirty laundry. And of course you've known your brother for a long time -- that's redundant. It should read: "In 2009, my brother was stationed in Kuwait and couldn't make it home for Christmas. He sent me this seashell along with a card that read: "I hope you'll forgive me, and when I get home we will get along better." The part about it being the best gift is probably hyperbole. Bang. You've shortened your piece, made it more powerful, left the readers with a few questions that they'll have to answer on their own. 

But it's still just a fucking seashell. 

This was the outfit worn by Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven. One of my favorite characters (Will Munny) played by  my favorite actor in one of my favorite movies. 

Well done, Smithsonian. 

I write about the Museum for so long because it is the easy part to remember. I still get a lump in my throat when I think of six months and how long that can be. I will miss having dinner with my family and I will just will miss my family. I will miss my little niece and her hats and my nephew and his ga's and ung's and I will miss my sisters laughing at my brother and I will miss the hugs Mom gives and I will miss my Dad at the head of the table. 

Mother's Day

The word cherub, if I hear it, always makes me think of Mom. So does the tea section in a grocery store. We used to watch Die Hard movies together on nights when Dad was away, so whenever I catch a re-run of any of the Die Hards, I will inevitably think of Mom at some point, which I realized wasn't normal when I told that story to one of my friends. The personal-pan size Boboli crusts are Mom, too. I used to get home from school and Mom would cook one for me (no sauce or cheese -- too bold for me) and she'd put on Inspector Gadget and I'd watch my favorite cartoon and eat my favorite pizza crust and unwind from a tough day of addition and subtraction. There is a postcard from Langkawi that Mom gave me the night before my first Ironman. It's written in a teal-blue ink, tells me to be proud and to smile and breathe and enjoy. That one is more obvious.

There is my I Survived A GangBang shirt. I don't really think of Mom when I wear it, but I know she would be disappointed wherever she is. There are the photos of Lilly and Jack and Amelia and Jim; those always make me think of how Amelia was once Lilly's age and how a few years down the road Mom had a brand new baby and a two year old and a four year old and a six year old. Those were simpler times, Mom says when I raise this with her, as if that makes it less remarkable. I don't know how one finds the energy to keep up with Lilly day after day, let alone four Lillys, but I have come to realize that Mom will never take the credit she deserves for this. Perhaps she feels ashamed that she raised a vandal daughter and a public-intoxicant son. I think she did rather well, especially given what she had to work with.    

Mom is knit sweaters, stitched rabbits, Tibetans, morning tea, I-think-I've-had-one-glass-too-many, flows, I-don't-want-a-puppy-but-I'll-hold-Tess-the-entire-way-home, ionizing or deionizing water, shepard's pie, love, cherubs, Boboli's crusts, Die Hard, duffah's, cherubs, rag-a-muffins, Oh-Ellie!, Jose-I mean Edward, Gi-gi!, Oh-Pete!, five-foot-one-and-a-half (or is it three-quarters?), alllllllright, counting-bridges-before-they-burn, Lebanese, Oh-Sis!, Get Personal, artist, marathon-finisher, big-hugs, peaceful, doodar (pronounced, doo-dah), Annie, surprsingly-sober-considering-she's-been-married-to-Dad-for-over-three-decades.

Mom is much more, of course, than a list of things and memories. She is simple and wonderful; a little woman who exudes acceptance and love in a way that makes the world a better place simply because she loves and accepts.

I am all over the place.  

I wanted to sit down to write and let know Mom how much I love her and instead I have spent the last hour thinking of all the ways Mom has loved. That is my Mom -- when I think of love, I think of her.

Happy Mothers' Day, Mom.

My New Life

  I worked in a bar longer than I thought I would. I started at the bottom - which meant standing out front - checking licenses and carrying televisions inside and getting people out of the bar when they needed to leave. After a few months I moved inside and washed glasses that I would then go around and pick up and wash again. When the glasses where clean and stocked I cut limes, took out the trash, mopped up vomit in the bathroom and wiped out ashtrays until my hands stunk like cigarettes. Almost a year ago I was promoted to bartender. This meant pouring the booze while somebody else broke up the fights and somebody else cut the limes. The job was to make drinks and talk to the people who drank them and I became good enough at both to support myself and pay off a debt and even save a little. But the money stopped being enough of a reason eventually; alcohol makes everybody ugly if you give them enough. And I got tired of hating people.

  The bar isn’t a bad deal. You’re making thirty, forty, fifty, sometimes sixty dollars an hour and no place else that’s hiring pays like that. It has those moments – every job does – like when a guy waves money in your face and asks if you’re ever going to take his order and then when you tell him how much it costs, complains you short-poured him. That’s when you behave like you never would have before you started this life and so you stop what you’re doing and look him right in the face and tell him that he can pay for the drink or he can get the fuck out and if he doesn’t feel like doing either then you’d be more than happy to come around to that side of the bar and discuss it further. You don’t say it like that always, though you wish you did. But you say something close, only louder, and the night goes on.

  On the drive home, when the highway is dark and strangely empty and you’re tired from ten hours on your feet, you wonder if you might be better off working in a cubicle in some generic office building or someplace where you never have to listen to that music or talk to people again.

  The danger is that you will never leave. Not because the job is what you want but because it’s all you have. So you drive home tired and you wake up the following morning and the anger you went to bed with is gone but the money isn’t so you show up the next night and the next and the next. Everyone does.

  I searched half-heartedly for other work. The market is an easy thing to blame, so I tried that for a while. And it’s not hard to get distracted.

  Things changed at the bar. Cameras were installed so we could be monitored at all times. Our allowance to buy drinks was cut from six to five and then to three and then two. We were continually sent e-mails imploring us to step up, to stay on edge, to care more. I did my best to do none. My favourite message was the one that specified the chain of command, starting with the owner at the top and beneath the owner’s name was an arrow pointing downwards and then the general manager’s name and so on. None of our names were on there. We were all bar staff. I thought about sending management an e-mail reminding that we all worked in a bar, but someone talked me out of it. It was probably for the best.

  I submitted online applications for anything that sounded interesting. More applications than I can count. I heard back from one and they said my education and experience did not fulfil their qualifications. I sent them a thank you e-mail, which they did not respond to. It probably didn’t meet their thank-you-response qualifications.

   Then, with Dad’s guidance, things started happening. People responded to Peter’s son. Some even called. Within a matter of weeks, I got an offer for a writing job that paid better than the bar.

   An hour after I’d accepted the new job, I had to work my last shift at the bar. I can’t describe to you what was in my heart and head and stomach that night. At best it would be an incomplete list, partly because I don’t know how to make you feel the emptiness of those cold, slow nights.
  

   Now I am a writer. A real one. I no longer have to spit out lines about bartending allowing me to “pay for my writing habit” and all that. I wake up at seven and go to bed at eleven and in between I write and edit and read things that interest and sharpen me and when I’m taking a break I normally abuse Dad’s offer to help me if I need it or I give Kristin a hard time about her shopping habits.

   A couple nights ago, after I’d finished writing for the day, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. I’d done this so many nights before except those nights I’d look up and wonder how the hell this was all going to play out. I didn’t see much then other than closed doors that stayed closed for people like me. I saw the life I wanted to lead but no way to lead it.

  It was that same ceiling I stared at a few nights ago. To my left was a beautiful girl who is sweet and wonderful and makes my life better just because of who she is and the way she looks at me and how she laughs at my jokes. I was proud as I lay there; as proud as I can remember being. This is what I would do if I could do anything.

  There is more down the road. I will sell a screenplay because I must pick up the phone and call my parents and after they say hello I am going to just say “I did it”. I simply must do that. There is a nice house with a 50m pool in the back and I’m going to swim laps with my Dad and my brother and anyone else in the family who feels like swimming and then I’ll cook a barbecue (Dad and Jim have already done their fair share) and beneath the stars we can end the night with wine and the conversations we always have. There’s a hill in the botanic gardens I must run up again, though I will keep running after I’ve reached the top. I will keep running until my legs hurt and then hope for that tropical rain to cover everything, even me. Then I will run a little longer and take in that humid air and drag myself back home and then go down by the river and eat ribs. A cold draft in Dublin awaits, as long as it poured in a small bar that is warm and cosy. Reading in a hammock by the water sounds nice, too, especially if I can share it with a cute blonde.

  It is exciting to think this way; where hammocks and barbecues feel more possible than ever; where I am a writer - a paid one - after trying to be for seven years; where I look at the ceiling because I am excited, not because I am too worried to fall asleep.

  I would not have made it without the people I love. As they have done before, though under very different circumstances, they were a reason to not stop. They were much more, of course, but I can’t explain that either.  

  

To Washington and Back, Part 1

My diesel truck became known as the "tortuga" for no real reason other than "tortuga" is a fun word to say, especially if you can deliver it with a thick, dramatic spanish accent like something straight out of a telenovela. It took practice, of course, but we had practiced it plenty of times on drives to and from swimming workouts.  

True to its name, the tortuga didn't offer much in the way of acceleration, but it had a huge gas tank and could run forever or damn close to forever, especially after the transmission had been rebuilt. It was the first car I'd ever called my own and I loved the way it couldn't u-turn or fit in parking spaces downtown and how it sounded louder than other diesels for some reason.

But after close to thirty thousand miles together and plenty of repairs and fix-ups during, I knew it was time to part ways. I worried about the truck and if I could even sell it for a while and if I could if I even wanted to and then it all came together in ways that almost felt planned. My general manager needed a car to drive that could double as a vehicle for the bars and decided that he wanted to buy the truck immediately. I of course wanted to sell it. And then Dad had a truck he didn't drive often that he said I could use; a younger, faster gas-powered beauty, which Ryan and I quickly dubbed  the "tortuga negra" not for racial reasons but because the Ford is actually black. So I sold the tortuga and Kristin and I decided, at Dad's suggestions, that we would fly up to Washington DC to get the truck,  then drive back down together to Austin. Burn two bridges with one fire, as Kristin would say; not only take a nice break from real life as we drove across the country, but also dramatically improve my financial and vehicle situations. On second count, that's three burning bridges. 

So Kristin took time off school and I took time off work and we boarded a tiny plane and flew to Chicago and then we boarded a slightly larger plane and flew to Washington DC.  

On one of those flights was a woman whose arms were bigger than Kristin's legs, so I took a photo of her. When Kristin found out that I had secretly taken a photo of this woman, she gave me one of those looks that lets me know she's more than slightly disappointed. I shrugged and showed her the photo, pinching the screen to zoom in on the woman's arm.

We eventually arrived in Reagan airport and after we waited for Kristin's checked bag, Mom came and got us from the airport and took us the scenic way home so Kristin could see the monuments and what real DC looked like. 

We came in the house and dropped our bags and almost instantly a shepard's pie came out of the oven. Artists often leave a tiny signature of sorts in a bottom corner of their paintings to help ensure that they receive credit for their work (among other reasons). Dad butchered that same artistic principle and carved his initials into the center of the mashed potatoes in the hope of taking credit for making the pie itself. It was nice to see that not much had changed since I had last been home, not even my shamelessly oportunistic father. 

Though we have come to realize we are both annoyingly indecisive, Kristin and I decided to stay two nights in Washington, in part so Kristin could have a day walking around the monuments, but also so we could enjoy the dinners which always seems to involve salad and wine, which are things we have both decided we enjoy. 

We picked a perfect day to go sightseeing; warm but pleasant, with one quick burst of rain that didn't last long at all and didn't even really get us wet. We took our time, took a few photos as well, but the highlight for me was the wandering and the chatting and the holding hands.  All the memorials and monuments are within walking distance of one other, so Mom dropped us off by the Washington monument and Kristin and I looked at our photocopied map and made our way to each, stopping at one point to sit beneath a willow tree and look at the ducks at I used to feed as a little boy, though now there are signs that tell you not to feed them. 

 

A part of the World War II memorial is this wall of stars, where each star represents 100 men either killed or missing in action from WWII and in front of the wall/fountain, the words "FREEDOM ISN'T FREE" are carved. I looked at the wall for a while and finally decided that the all the neatly arranged stars missed the point, that somehow a gold star didn't do justice to the men it symbolized, that their lives were much more than a star and some phrase that's been said so often by every single presidential candidate for the last two decade that it doesn't really mean anything anymore or at the very least doesn't mean anything to me.

There is another wall yet to be built, though perhaps instead of stars they'll use flags and I can't help but wonder why we still fight when there is no mystery in how it all ends. And somewhere in all of this I think of those pictures of Lilly smiling at Jack and how much of a shame it is that all those stars and flags were men once and could be men still but they are dead now because freedom isn't free when all along they should have been at home watching their little sons and daughters discover that they could chew on their feet for the first time.

The Texas pillar at the WWII monument. Each state has its own. 

My personal favorite, the Korean Memorial. 

Pretty sure I tried to convince Kristin this was the Jefferson Memorial,
though she wasn't having much of it. 

Not bad for an iPhone photo, I thought. 

Lewis and I on the metro home.  

Eventually we both agreed that we'd seen enough history and memorials and that we really needed was some good scotch and wine so we took the metro back home, which Kristin thought was rather cool. I can't ever ride the metro without thinking of Joe, partly because Joe has all the stops on the red line memorized as well all the stops on a few of the other lines as well. I don't know why anyone would want to memorize those stops -- there are plenty of maps to remind you of all the stops -- but Joe knows them all by heart and if you knew my brother you'd know that it makes perfect sense for him to know something as useless as the order of metro stops of a city he doesn't live in anymore. 

We got back home and had one last dinner -- the barbecue -- and it was wonderful, simply wonderful. 

I had a lump in my throat when I said goodbye to Mom and Dad the next morning because if I had a choice I'd never say goodbye to them again; instead they'd live nearby and we could do this, the barbecues and the dinner conversations, as much as we wanted. 

As we found our way out of the city, I think Kristin could tell where my mind was because she squeezed my hand a few times and smiled but didn't say anything. The miles passed and we left DC behind and soon all that was really left was the music playing over the speakers and in the front seat was the girl who still makes my stomach drop and ahead the road stretched for as far as I could see, though I knew it went further than that.