Existential haiku

The most vibrant leaves
Are plucked off from their branches
Well before their time.


In Memoriam, Tatiana Sisquella.

http://www.ara.cat/media/Mor-periodista-Tatiana-Sisquella_0_1080492057.html

Memoir #1

I wish I remembered more than I do about our first dogs, Linda and Cadell.  The few memories I have of them both are among my most precious ones.

Linda came to us when she was already a senior.  A majestic German Shorthaired Pointer, she had been used as a hunting dog most of her life.  Her former owners, Paco and Maria, were also Catalan immigrants in Mexico, and were good friends of my parents — though they were closer to my grandparents in age.  They bred Springer Spaniels, too, so their home was always alive with dog licks and wagging tails.  I remember spending many a happy time at the dog haven they called home.

Maria babysat me once, I believe it was for a few days, actually.  Now that I think about it, it might have been when my brother was born, because I was two and he wasn’t there.  I should ask my mother next time I call her.  Anyway, Maria was a generous woman — both in spirit and in girth — had an easy, warm soprano laugh, and a humble heart.  She could choke the life out of you with her loving welcome hugs at her doorstep.

There are a couple of tapes of my short stay there — the format was the so-called Super 8, with flickering color images, but still no sound.  The kind one had to physically feed  into a projector and then feed it on the opposite end to another reel.  —  Anyway, in one of them Maria is sitting on her couch along with several of their dogs to her left.  I, a small two year old in a short little dress, am seen struggling to squeeze my little bottom, unsuccessfully, between Maria’s opulence and the arm of her sofa.  She laughs and talks to the camera, petting her dogs, thoroughly unaware that I am even there.

In spite of what that last image might imply, though, I do know for a fact that she loved me very much.  One day, — not sure if during this same visit or some other time, — I decided to first, bathe a doll in her toilet, and then flush it down.  She never yelled at me or scolded me once, though years later I heard from mom that she had been quite upset by this.  

The other tape features only me.  I am in their garage, frantically trying to open door into their home, with a very apparent urge to go pee.  After a few attempts I turn to the camera and beg for whomever is taping to open the door for me.  But I digress.

There is a particular anecdote of Linda’s I remember fondly.  It is a story we were told from the time before she came to live with us.  Paco was the master of the house, but Maria was the one who fed her.  So one day they decided to test her loyalty and see who she would rank as a higher alfa.  They all went hunting together, and Paco shot a duck.  As they waited for Linda to go and retrieve it, they each stood several feet apart on opposite sides of the road.  When Linda finally showed up with the duck, they both began to call for her, asking her to give it to them.  Linda took one look at him, then at her, and promptly chose to deposit the duck neatly on the ground, right smack in between them.  They say she went to lay under the truck to take a nap after that, leaving the two of them to sort it out.  

Paco was a man with a very short temper.  He and dad went hunting together often, and later dad would tell us of Paco’s tirades whenever the hunting was not going his way.  One day, Paco decided to turn his anger on his dog, Linda, and aimed his rifle straight at the dog’s head, ready to put her out.  But my dad, who thankfully was with him, had a soft spot in his heart for Linda, and asked Paco not to kill her, but to let him take her instead.  And that is how Linda came to join our family.

My brother and I, about three and five at the time, loved Linda to pieces.  She was ever so patient with us, as we rode her like a horse, sat to watch TV with her, fed her our leftovers, played fetch with her, and turned around and hugged her out of the blue.  She was our buddy and our protector.  Our toy, and our older sister.  

My mom, even though skeptical at first, ended up falling in love with her too.  Especially after Linda showed her prowess as a guard dog.  Our house at that time was basically a box (like most houses in Mexico at that time) with a flat roof where we hung the wash out to dry, and where we kept the dog.  The house also had an interior garden, a square hole cut right smack in the middle of the floor plan, with glass walls all around, a glass door, and open to the sky.

Well, one day, when my dad was away — on a business trip, as was often the case — my mom awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps, barking, growling, and a loud, frantic scuffle, coming from the rooftop.  She only stood below, listening, waiting, terrified.  The racket ended abruptly, and my mom decided to step outside and call for Linda.  She was well aware that this was dangerous: Linda might have died, and the robber (robbers?) might still be up there, but she had to find out what had happened.  After calling her name a few times, Linda poked her little head out, panting and wagging her tail, and earning a special place in my mom’s heart.  And a special corner in doggie heaven, I’m sure.

She died of old age, they told us.  My brother and I did not see it happen.  All remember is dad, crumpled on a chair in the kitchen, crying.  My dad never cried.  Except that one other time, many years later, the day my Avi, his father, passed away.  But that is another story.

Memoirs. Will you write yours?

I once was told by a local Seattle editor (whom I both love and admire very much,) that sometimes, in order to let our best writing shine through, we need to write our own memoirs first.

She was reviewing a section of my work in progress that described the relationship between a grandfather and the main character. The descriptions, apparently, seemed a bit too close to the truth for comfort.  Once you let those memories out on a page of their own, she said, you are then freed to write your main character's true story.

I think she was onto something. So I decided to write my memoir. But where to begin?

I will not sit here and ponder on the merits of writing one. Everyone's life is different, and even though I do believe that everyone's story is a fascinating one, I am not going to be the one to judge whether or not you should write one. Let's just assume you have decided, like me, that whether our story is worthy of being cast onto the page or not, we're still going to go ahead and do it, if only as an exercise.

So, back to the first question: where to begin?

One could be forgiven for thinking that every memoir on earth should start at the beginning. You know, the birth of the person writing it.  But think about it: most of us, (I'd like to say all of us, but I am not certain that it is true) so, most of us, then,  do not remember the moment when we were born. Our earliest memories, as a matter of fact, begin around our third or fourth birthday.  (There is a fascinating, extensive study done on this very subject, having to do with brain protein and the growing baby body's hunger for it, but that would make me digress too much.  It is worth searching for, and reading, though.) Most of the stories we know from the first two or three years are mostly those that we have been told, or of which we've seen pictures. Also, many times, the circumstances of our birth are events that have their roots days, months, and even years and centuries before our birthday. Should we start there?

Getting lost in such quandaries only manages to discourage me from starting in the first place. Good thing I have great role models to follow.

My maternal grandfather, (may he rest in the same happy, joyful peace with which he lived his life,) wrote his memoir in a most unusual (and effective) way: whenever he remembered something, -- an anecdote, a person, a place, -- he quietly excused himself from the conversation he was having at the time and went straight to his desk. He wrote about that one instance, nothing else, printed it, and placed it in a folder. After he had accumulated a few, he began to sort them in the chronological order in which the events happened in his life.

I have a copy of his published work on my desk. And it is priceless.

On second thought, I AM going to be the one to tell you to go on and write your own! Future generations will thank you. Will you join me in this? I will publish here every entry of my memoirs. If you do the same, (and you have a blog where you are going to publish them) then leave the link in the comments, and I would be DELIGHTED to read them.

Game?

2014… here we come!

Where did 2013 go?

The kids are bigger, older, wiser.
I am bigger and older too. Wiser? Hmmm. I guess time will tell.

We have moved to a new home, re-connected with old friends, made new ones...none of which made it to the blog. Oh well, nevermind with 2013. It is done. It has been a great year to some, and a disastrous one to most.

I do have my hopes up for this year though. And it has nothing to do with certitude, and everything to do with superstition and numbers.

You see, my birthday is 02/14. This year, I am turning 42. The new home we moved to (and where we hope to spend the rest of our days) bears the name 1420 with pride. And this is the year 2014.

Coincidence? :)

Well, we all need to have something to believe in, something to hang our faith on, like a prized heirloom hanging from a dingy, rusty, dangling hook.


See you soon.