Auntie Betty's funeral was today. She was, from the first time I met Mark's extended family, the sweetest and nicest of the aunties, no rough edges, no prickly places, no judgements, no haole hesitancy, just a warm smile and simple acceptance. She may have been the first in the family to have a Caucasian son-in-law. Maybe that helped. Though when I first entered the fam around 1977, it was mainly some of the cousins, the ones my own age who were stand-off-ish. That all feels so long ago, I hardly think of it. These days all those differences between the cousins don't matter so much -- who went to college, who worked construction or hotel, who married Japanese or Okinawan, who married haole or Filipino or Hawaiian, who is good in the kitchen and who can't manage her way around one, all those classic divides, matter less and less, as the aunties and uncles age, as the kids grow up and have their own kids, as we all age and gets less beautiful (2 of Peter's cousins had a hilarious ugly-man contest which we captured on film today), and everyone sort of looks forward to the funerals just cause it gets us all together.
A simple and intimate funeral, the emotion only hit when we walked up to the photo draped with leis, the heavy rectangular urn, and the elegant flower arrangements; when son Thomas struggled valiantly through the enormous lump in his throat to name all those the family wished to thank for their support; when he returned to his seat and let the tears come as his sister, wife and 13-year old son all reached out their hands to hold up his bearish body, to log on to the mutual magnetic field that so intensely connects families at these times, to bring him home; when the pastor announced that "our thoughts are with the family of Toshi Arakawa", and startled, I looked at Mark who, having heard only moments earlier, mouthed "last Thursday"; when the service ended, and sitting right in front of me was Toshi's wife, Aunty Sally, and I asked for the story that anyone in the midst of acute euphoric grief is ready to pour out (and any of us who've been there, is ready to hear): "What was it like at the end?"
We've been to a number of funerals for men in the family, but this is the first for an Arakawa auntie. I had a quick flash of the reality that lay ahead for our family, a ghost of Christmas future with our moms in the Tiny Tim chair flitted past my eyelids and dove back into unconscious before it could do much damage. It went into hiding almost before I noticed it, like a dream that slips away as your eyes open in the morning. Please, God, let me hold onto my precious illusions a while longer.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Saturday, October 4, 2008
blogger MIA
Yes, I've been a blogger mostly missing in action these past 6 months, a season during which we traveled to Eastern and Western Europe, I quit my job of 12 years, started a new job requiring new skills, with no vacation or sick leave for 3 months; during those first 3 months, I traveled to my sister's wedding in Vermont, followed by a training in Seattle, and then 2 weeks later on a work trip to Pohnpei in Micronesia. Last spring, we began construction of a new house on our land in Waimea, and amazingly it is now nearing completion. The daughter came home for the summer and returned to school + boyfriend in California. The son returned from teaching in Hungary and travels in Europe for only a few weeks before moving with his dog to the Big Island where he and a friend are assisting with final construction work on the Waimea house, working at a Kona restaurant, and camping out in the house. Our mothers needed assistance and attention. Family friends and relatives passed away. The economy took a nosedive and the times they are not only a changin' but without precedence. We so desperately need a new and better President (whose name begins with O and who is not a Muslim-- but so what if he were?). During this wonderful and terrible time of many changes, life got out of balance. Mark and I were sadly thousands of miles apart on our 27th wedding anniversary. Reflection and writing got short shrift as we went into energy conservation and powersave mode. Back in towards balance, back to blogging. Yeah!
The first-born turns 24
Last night I dreamed I was pregnant. At some point in the Fellini-esque dream sequence, as I am showing my slightly pouffy belly to some skeptical persons and insisting that the test was positive, some corner of left brain begins kicking in, and I say "But I don't feel pregnant (and I know what that feels like)".
Yesterday was my son's 24th birthday, the anniversary of my first-born's appearance on the world stage. I started out the day by sending him a text message, knowing he'd still be asleep in our Big Island house, before heading in to work through rush hour traffic. At the end of the day, before tai chi class, I left a voice message on his cell, and got back a text reading "At work mama. Thanks for the bday wishes. Luv ya"
After tai chi, Mark and I stopped for margaritas and a meal, reminiscing briefly about that day 24 years ago, the various people who were there then and where they are now: dear friend Pua who drove us from Kalihi Valley to Kaiser in Waikiki through rush hour traffic with me lying in the backseat already in Transition and feeling every bump on the road; also joining us in the room where Jonah was born were my Bradley childbirth teacher and her photographer husband: wonder where she is now, and do we still have those photos somewhere in our pre-digital collection of shoe boxes?
At the next table, close enough to touch the enormous stroller, sit two young moms, continuously feeding, soothing, bouncing and rocking their naturally manic-depressive infants, surrounded by all the necessary paraphernalia. I never saw the moms eat their meals, nor converse in the adult sense of the word. One of them looked very tired. I thoroughly enjoyed the scene: babies' bobbling heads on still rubbery necks; faces lit with joy each time they re-discovered each other, or mother, or some random hypnotic light in the room; abject misery and tears a moment later, giving way to delight only once mom is out of her seat, rhythmically rocking baby high above those cool-looking restaurant baby seats that work for all of 5 minutes.
Though not as entranced by the show at the next table as I, Mark was easily drawn into free associating about Sargeant Somebody, soon to be deployed to Kuwait for a year, who brought her 1 year old to work recently. Soon Mark's face is imitating the child's wide-eyed stare and chubby cheeks, his hands pantomiming the carefully crafted braids and pig tails surrounding her round chocolate-colored face.
No, we don't miss the babies, and we don't yearn for grand-babies (yet), but they sure can be the best show in town when you have the luxury of just observing these messy little miracles...along with their oh so young, vulnerable and brave caretakers.
Don't worry, girls, I say in my head, before long, they'll be old enough to sit at the table with a little plastic container of Cherrios and a set of crayons and draw on a paper placemat while you get a few bites to eat. Or maybe you'll make the mistake of getting them one of those portable little DVD players, and you won't have to talk to them at all during a restaurant dinner. Then, in the blink of an eye, they'll be teens and won't want to talk to you at all. Time is an illusion and if it exists passes quickly. When you're living in the stressful and ever-present present, these are just words that old folks say. Only those of us on this side of the magic time machine become true believers.
Yesterday was my son's 24th birthday, the anniversary of my first-born's appearance on the world stage. I started out the day by sending him a text message, knowing he'd still be asleep in our Big Island house, before heading in to work through rush hour traffic. At the end of the day, before tai chi class, I left a voice message on his cell, and got back a text reading "At work mama. Thanks for the bday wishes. Luv ya"
After tai chi, Mark and I stopped for margaritas and a meal, reminiscing briefly about that day 24 years ago, the various people who were there then and where they are now: dear friend Pua who drove us from Kalihi Valley to Kaiser in Waikiki through rush hour traffic with me lying in the backseat already in Transition and feeling every bump on the road; also joining us in the room where Jonah was born were my Bradley childbirth teacher and her photographer husband: wonder where she is now, and do we still have those photos somewhere in our pre-digital collection of shoe boxes?
At the next table, close enough to touch the enormous stroller, sit two young moms, continuously feeding, soothing, bouncing and rocking their naturally manic-depressive infants, surrounded by all the necessary paraphernalia. I never saw the moms eat their meals, nor converse in the adult sense of the word. One of them looked very tired. I thoroughly enjoyed the scene: babies' bobbling heads on still rubbery necks; faces lit with joy each time they re-discovered each other, or mother, or some random hypnotic light in the room; abject misery and tears a moment later, giving way to delight only once mom is out of her seat, rhythmically rocking baby high above those cool-looking restaurant baby seats that work for all of 5 minutes.
Though not as entranced by the show at the next table as I, Mark was easily drawn into free associating about Sargeant Somebody, soon to be deployed to Kuwait for a year, who brought her 1 year old to work recently. Soon Mark's face is imitating the child's wide-eyed stare and chubby cheeks, his hands pantomiming the carefully crafted braids and pig tails surrounding her round chocolate-colored face.
No, we don't miss the babies, and we don't yearn for grand-babies (yet), but they sure can be the best show in town when you have the luxury of just observing these messy little miracles...along with their oh so young, vulnerable and brave caretakers.
Don't worry, girls, I say in my head, before long, they'll be old enough to sit at the table with a little plastic container of Cherrios and a set of crayons and draw on a paper placemat while you get a few bites to eat. Or maybe you'll make the mistake of getting them one of those portable little DVD players, and you won't have to talk to them at all during a restaurant dinner. Then, in the blink of an eye, they'll be teens and won't want to talk to you at all. Time is an illusion and if it exists passes quickly. When you're living in the stressful and ever-present present, these are just words that old folks say. Only those of us on this side of the magic time machine become true believers.
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