A Bit of a Tribute

So, a few minutes ago, I got a short message from my mother informing me that my grandfather passed away a few hours ago.

Wow, what a sudden surge of emotion: immediate sadness and relief, along with a tint of rejoicing...

Now, my grandfather turned 97 about three weeks ago, so, all things considered, you have to say he had a mighty good run.

My relationship with my grandfather was always a bit interesting. Though he was born in Texas, he never lived there until I was in my late 20s. Thus, he and my grandmother were always a bit special, since I did not see them all that frequently as a child. They lived 10-13 hours a way by car, so when the did visit (or we visited them), it was kind of exciting.

My dad's father had died when I was 9, and my grandmother on my father's side has always been close to me, particularly since she lived in my home town. I was able to see her often, and that relationship has continued over the years, whether it be for Tex-Mex and margaritas in Cantina Laredo, or more recently (aka, the past 5 years) via Skype.

My mother's parents, however, always lived "far away," or at least far in a kid's terms. Thus, any chance I got to seem them was extra special, since the visits were not so frequent. Nana and Daddy Monk were always close to me, but as a child, I was a little too young to truly comprehend the fact that my grandfather was a minister, and subsequently was elected Bishop when I was only 6. That basically meant that he touched a lot of different people in various churches and congregations. When you are a little kid, you just kind of want to be loved by your grandparents, and are not so caught up in what they do for a living, etc.

Daddy Monk and Nana took me abroad for the first time when I was 11 years old. One of the most brilliant trips in my life, that was....

As I grew into adolescence, I began to question the answers I received as I went about my life, questions about personal life, existence, religion, etc.

While I remained close to my grandparents, and always somewhat in awe of both of them, I began to notice that things were not exactly as simple and easy going as I had believed when I was a little boy. As I matured, I was not always so quick to simply accept what my grandparents said or directed. I was not really challenging them, but I trying to put things into perspective.

When I was 13 or 14, they moved to North Carolina. My grandfather had effectively retired, and had built a house near Asheville, North Carolina. My first visit to their house was incredible. Methodist ministers tend to move around a bit, so I had already known my Grandparents in 4 different houses before seeing their "retirement home."

Though I had always had fond memories of their previous homes, I was particularly enthralled with this house in North Carolina. When I was 15, before I started to high school, I got to go over and spend almost a month with them in their house. The idea was to spend time with them, of course, but also to serve as a bit of a summer job for me; I did odd jobs for my grandparents around the house, including painting, renovating furniture, and more or less doing all the heavy lifting that was required. My grandfather was a bit strict, but was quite a skilled workman, so I learned a whole lot. Sure, I got paint all over the garage floor, and mucked up a few other things, but the experience was wonderful.

My grandmother was an artist and a teacher, so her influence, along with my grandfather's special touch, made for a very enlightening growing up period.

As that summer came to a close, I thought happily about my visit with my grandparent's in North Carolina, feeling forever proud that I was the one who completed their little "Bryanhurst" sign that was placed at the foot of their driveway.

As I finished up high school, I started to get the feeling that my grandfather played favorites a bit amongst my cousins and me, and furthermore, was a bit direct in his commmentary. More and more freqnetly, he came across rather opinionated, kind of in a irritating way, if not hurtful. Once or twice I got the feeling that I was not able to measure up to expectation, which was a little disconcerting, as my high school experience was only slightly better than "it really sucked," so I was not really in the mindset to have to deal with additional negative commentary.

During the summer after my first year of college (private Presbyterian school...for which I apparently earned appreciative points from my grandfather), my grandmother died suddenly from a heart attack.

Though I was deeply saddened by this loss, particularly since this grandmother had had great influence with me regarding art, tolerations, and appreciating beauty in its smallest capacities, I was even more touched by the impact that my grandmother's death had on my mother, and my grandfather.

My dad's father died after a lengthy illness when I was young, and my grandmother (my dad's mom) has remained solid and strong ever since. On the other hand, my mom's dad, after mom's mom died, seemed suddenly lost. I was amazed, because he had always been the patriarch of the family, not just because he was a very capable minister, but because his direct approach at being the leader of the family.

The death of his wife seemed to take a lot out of my grandfather, but over the next months we were in regular contact with one another, and I, as an angst-ridden teenager, assumed that he would continue on strongly, after his healing process, much the way my grandmother (my father's mom) had done.

During my second year of college, I went to visit my grandfather during a spring break. We had a good visit, though somehwat subdued. During the visit, I felt a bit distant, mainly because during the past few years we had grown apart. Or perhaps I was simply growing up, still caught between being a child and an adult. As our visit came to a close, I remember thinking to myself, "My grandather is now old man, and I will likely not have too many more opportunities to see him."

Fortunately, I was wrong.

As I continued through college, my grandfather began dating again, and during my senior year, remarried, to a wonderful woman. At the time, I was a bit distraught, since I thought that remarrying only two years after a loved one has died seemed a bit too short. Howeever, I tried to put myself in his shoes; he had always had companionship, so it was only logical that he would seek a new partner. I certainly welcomed my step-grandmother into the family with open arma.

I finished school and entered my 20s with the comfort that I still had living grandparents. Sure, for a few years during my late teens and early 20s, I was a bit distant from most everyone in my family, as I struggled with my own life. However, I continued to recognize the importance of family and cherished the moments I had with my living grandmother on my dad's side, and my grandfather and step-grandmother on my mother's side.

During my 20s, my grandfather had a few health problems which required surgery, which inevitably led to complications, as he was already in his late late 70s. However, each time he was in hospital, I realized that he was so strong that he would get through.

Two years after I finished college, my sister got married, electing to have the wedding ceremony performed by my grandfather in the church where we had grown up.
Because my sister married a Spaniard, who at the time did not speak a great deal of english (and his family even less), a close friend of mine, Pablo, was enlisted to help with language barrier stuff. Pablo is Cuban-American, and obviously fluent in Spanish.


The night of the wedding rehearsal, Pablo picked me up, and we slammed a couple of beers down on the way to the church, and arrived about 15 minutes ("traffic, mom, honest...") late, to the disapproving looks from my grandfather and my mother. However, Pablo was particularly charming, and smoothed thing over (it might be a Catholic thing) very quickly. The rehearsal went swimmingly, and then the wedding party (plus guests) headed off to a restuarant to celebrate before the ceremony the following day.

Chris came to join us late, and Pablo, Chris and I had some late night beers atop the Green Room, where we just enjoyed the scene. I was just glad to have the company that was not immediate family (those of you who have had a sister get married know exactly what I am talking about). We enjoyed the scene, and a couple of times Pablo commented on how sharp my grandfather seemed as he coordinated the wedding party. Indeed, my grandfahter was at this point 80, but easily could have passed for someone 10 years younger. (note to Pablo, my grandfather was most impressed with you as well. imaagine that!)

Well, over these past 17 years, I am proud to say that I had a chance to become better frends with my grandfather. Sure, he has continued to be pretty direct, sending regular emails to me with instructions on how I should be living my life. Furthermore, I always suspected he tended to play favorites, so me, as a non-churchgoing heavy smoker did not necessarily rank as high among the grandkids, especially since two of my cousins have gone through seminary.

However, I put all of that aside. Though my relationship with my grandfather was difficult for a number of years, namely between age 18-33, I never stopped loving him. And I know that he never stopped loving me.

As I entered my 30s, we were able to have a few more open discussions about my viewpoints on life, the state of the world, etc, and to some extent, I think my grandfather respected that.

Once or twice, I have joked with friends that my grandfather started respecting me once he found out that I am an avid reader of the The Economist. Sure, my grandfather had never stopped sending me emails giving me the addresses to the churches in whichever city I was living in at the time. (you try moving 3 times and it adds up). However, my grandfather was just being himself. I learned to respect and accept that. I have always admired him, but yes, he had certain habits that made things difficult, not only for me, but also for other members of my family, particularly my mother.

That said, I always strived to put things in perspective. My grandfather had an incredibly active life, and touched thousands of lives in his personal and professional life. For the better part of 20 years, I wondered when he would be overcome with an illness that prevented him from living his life the ways he wanted.

Fortunately, he never really was subjected to that. Despite several surgeries and cancer treatments, he has been of sound mind and body, until this morning. Since I have lived away from the states, I communicate often with my parents via Skype, and hardly a conversation with my mother has gone by without her commenting on the current state of my grandfather, who, shortly after I left the states, left his home in North Carolina and moved into a more assisted liviing environment in my hometown, close to my parents.

Over the past 5 years, it has been more and more frustrating to receive the reports from my mother on a regular basis. My mom is simply commenting on her own frustrations at watching a parent, a loved one, get older, and become less and less independent.

I have always maintained that things were just taking their natural course, and truth be told, to have a grandparent alive at the age of 97 is quite the milestone. Therefore, it has always been relatively easy for me to sort of try and be diplomatic with my mother, ponting out the obvious, that 97 years is a bloody long time to be alive, and we should be thankful for all the great things that have happened during this time.

However, my mom is a worrier, and so am I. Thus, it is hard to NOT think about the "what if's" that take place in life. I have enough issues of my own, but often I have to stop and think of things from my mother's perspective; she is watching a parent get older and more and more dependent. Truth be told, I am doing the same thing, as I get older myself, and witness my own parents advance in their years.

It is days like today that I realize just how far away I am from my family. I want nothing more than to hug my mother and step-grandmother and oomfort them. I can only do that from afar right now.

But, I commfort myself with the fact that this past Christmas, I was in the states with my parents, and grandparents. We had a time together, where we could visit, laugh together, go to a concert together, catch up on each others lives (with which came the list once again of the churches I should be visiting in Frankfurt) and basically just celebrate the time together. For that I will be forever thankful.

As my sister lives on this side of the world with me, she and I often talk about what we do when we get news like we did today. We obviously cannot just jump in the car and cross town quickly.

How do I comfort my mom, who I want so desperately to hug right now? How do I reach out to the rest of the family who needs lots of thoughts and prayers right now? And how do I come to terms with this myself?

Like I said at the beginning, the emotions are flooding through me right now. The tears flow, and I think of my grandfather as I knew him in my lifetime, as well as before, as well as beyond. I hate laughing and crying at the same time, but it fits right now, because I can only be proud that Daddy Monk was my grandfather. He had a wonderful life, and touched many many lives, including mine.

I phoned him three weeks ago on his birthday; that was the last time we spoke. At the end of our conversation, we finished like all of our previous calls. We smiled, and said...

"Goodbye"

A Quiet Saturday Night

Late last night I sat on my balcony during a rainstorm, listening to a couple of compilations on my ipod. For two hours I just enjoyed the self time, allowing the tunes to help carry my mind wherever it wanted. It was interesting to sort of watch and feel the rain without hearing it, as the music provided the soundtrack. Still, I knew the type of sound the particular rainshower made, which was most comforting.

Sure, I have listened to these comps countless times, but sometimes when you are in a different mindset, the tunes strike you differently. Of course, I had moments of reminisence, recalling the first time I had ever heard certain tracks, or why I decided to put a track on the compilation in the first place. I recalled Funland and shows from 20 years ago (during the Dallas portion of one playlist), and smiled as I remembered getting thrown out of Trees once for taking a nap at the bar; I hadn't thought of that incidet in years.

I felt a bit somber as I listened to a song by COE, thinking of a friend of mine who, though I haven't spoken to him in a year, once mentioned how much he liked the particular song 59 minutes. A couple of weeks ago I found out that he has less than a year to live.

Minutes later, though, I was overwhelmed by the happy thoughts of how perfectly fitting the songs were, twisting and turning as they went through the gamut of emotions. I listened closely to the lyrics, somewhat amazed at how clear the Spanish songs were, despite my not using that language as much as before.

Interesting that I had been about to go to bed, truly tired from the past week, when suddenly, just with a a few tunes, I was wide awake and truly concentrating on things. Yes, I am often pensive, and I regularly reflect on the past, but last night everything was intertwined, mixing ideas for the future with memories of the past, funny times countered with not so pleasant moments. In life's unusual way, my thoughts were filled with absolute clarity, though clarity for me seems to be various shades of grey.

Quite the experience, I must say.

As the second comp came to an end, I finished my drink and went straight to bed, where I slept rarher soundly, and I didn't once have a nightmare about how poorly Arsenal looked yesterday in their opening match of the season. However, I will leave that discussion for another time.

Meanwhile, on with the music...

keep the faith
bryan

soundtrack -
Camouflage/Thrice/JimmyEatWorld
LawrenceArms/Rufio/Daryl/Funland/Old97s
CourseofEmpire/LaLey/Ignite/NewOrder
JoeJackson/Texas/BouncingSouls/BenFolds
Moenia/BigAudioDynamite/TheAlarm
MilesHunt/PhilCollins

Can't Think of a Title for this Post

This morning as I went to wait for the U-Bahn in Düsseldorf, I was rather amazed by the fact that, at 8.15am, though the platform was full of passengers waiting for the next train, it was totally quiet. Library quiet.

Truth be told, I was not feeling particularly chatty myself, but part of me almost burst into song, just to see everyone’s reaction. In the three seconds that I thought of this, the song choices came down to, “If you are happy and you know it clap your hands” or “If I Could Turn Back Time,” by Cher. I am not really sure why these songs popped into my head, but fortunately I held my tongue and just stayed silent with the rest of the people.

Most days, there is a flurry of activity, as you can imagine. Inevitably, there is always someone talking a little too loudly, though I know that it not just a phenomenon of travel on the underground. All the same, it was just a bit strange this morning.

As readers know, I tend to be on the quiet side at the best of the times, so I probably should have just enjoyed this morning’s silence and simply look forward to the next time. However, since I seem to be more and more self-conscious as of late, I actually couldn’t help wondering if perhaps everyone had been busy, chatting noisily and going about their business on the U-Bahn platform until 5 seconds before I got there. You know, kind of like when you walk into a crowded room and suddenly everything goes quiet. The obvious thought (right after you think of two quick songs to sing) is, “Mmmm, was it something I did that made everyone suddenly stop talking?”

Thankfully, the paranoia quickly passed, and a few minutes later I walked into the office to start another exciting day of work.
The past few weeks have been rather interesting (in a holyfuckingshit…I hope that never happens to me kind of way) and, though life tends to be pretty wobbly for me right now, I do still find the humor on a regular basis.

One recent day in the gym, I was doing overhead presses when suddenly my shoulder popped, loud enough to startle a guy who was about 2 meters away at another weight bench. I did not feel any pain, but was spooked enough to sort of take things easy for the rest of the workout. I did try to keep the shoulder loose for the next week, but returned to the gym the following weekend, and managed to throw my back out. I felt it go, and immediately knew that I was fucked.

What did I do? I went upstairs and did 20 minutes on the elliptical trainer, thinking that might loosen my back up.

It did not.

My gym is three U-Bahn stops away from home, but after workouts I frequently get off at the stop just before mine to do a few errands, then walk the rest of the way (a 5 minute walk). In fairness, since I realized that I was going to be sort of laid up for the rest of the weekend, I thought I might peek in the DVD store for a few movies to watch. Well, I got to browsing in the store, and could not make up my mind. Eventually, the pain in my back forced me to leave the store, and by this time I was more noticeably bent over and walking more and more slowly.
Next stop, a little place where I buy wine and coffee. Again, two staples that I need in my life, and again, I eased my way into the shop, made my purchases, then headed for home.

30 minutes later (5 minutes if you are upright and walking without any back pain) I finally got to my doorstep and I really thought it might be nice to get run over by a car. Alas, I simply keyed in, went upstairs, and got myself under the shower, hoping to get a bit of heat on the lower back.

After the shower, I felt well enough to decide to see if I could numb the pain with a few beers, so made my way next door to the pub, and spent the next few hours having a handful of pints. Later, I walked gingerly to get some Thai take-out, then went home and watched Brother Bear. (don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it).

Sunday morning was somewhat excruciating. I was unable to turn over in bed. Hell, I was unable to get out of bed, the pain was intense. With a few yelps and a couple of “oooowww’s,” I eventually got myself into an upright position, and then had to remain standing for the next 4 hours. Once, I tried to sit down, but my back locked up immediately, forcing me to immediately stand back up. I contemplated throwing myself of my balcony, but in the end the muscles loosened up just enough for me to climb in the shower, stand under the hot water for 20 minutes, and ultimately I began to feel a smidge better.

Truth be told, Sunday afternoon I did notice that the back was starting to recover. This has happened to me before, and usually the first 36 hours are total hell, but then things improve pretty quickly from there. Within a week, I would expect to be back to normal.

Except right now things do not seem to be so normal in my life. The Friday night before my back incident, I had been informed that instead of flying to Scotland the following Wednesday, I would need to be in Hungary, from Tuesday until the end of the week.

I obviously did not do any work on the Saturday (Brother Bear and take-out…try it!) and on Sunday I decided to try the alcohol trick to see if that would help improve things.

Turns out I was a bit wrong there, also. I did manage to get fairly drunk, which resulted in me being physically ill (geez, is this guy 22 or what?), which, for those that recall the not so great moment when I had a similar sicko experience right before I flew to Spain for Christmas holidays a couple of years back (“mom, was that a walking abortion we just passed, or does he just look like a dead baby pig?”) meant that I went off to work Monday morning bent over, walking slowly, looking like I had puked my guts out the previous evening.

Not a pretty sight, and several people commented as such when I arrived to Düsseldorf that morning, before heading on to Hungary.

Well, flying for two hours in a crowded airplane, then sitting in a van for three hours to get to southern Hungary is not necessarily the way to get your back back in order. However, I did not really have much choice. Thankfully, the hotel bed was extremely firm, and probably sped up my recovery.

By the end of my week with the supplier, my back was feeling quite a bit better. Thank goodness, because the visit with the supplier had not been a particularly positive one. No need to provide the details, but I returned to Germany not feeling particularly zippy.

I tumbled into bed that Friday evening, but just could not get to sleep, though I tried everything I could think of. I tossed and turned, kept getting up for drinks of water, and so on. Maybe I got a little sleep at some point, but certainly no real quality rest.

That said, fairly early Saturday morning I woke up, knowing it was way too early, but had to get out of bed, because my back was starting to stiffen up. So there I was at 7am on Saturday morning, knowing full well that I would NOT be visiting the gym that day, but was too tired and restless to try and do anything else.

For inspiration, I found myself blazing through the first season of 21 Jump Street, which at least gave me a few hours of something to do. Realizing that perhaps I should try to do something productive. I made a quick run to the supermarket, stocked up on a couple of things, then headed off to do a bit of journal writing. Obviously that experience requires a few beers along the way, so I did manage to spend Saturday afternoon scribbling some thoughts. Some random people came by that I knew, so I closed my book and chatted a bit. A bit later, a different group of folks came by, so I talked to them awhile, before they headed off. Just then, another acquaintance walked up, so he and I had a bit of a chat, and so the next few hours went. I must have sat in 5 or 6 different areas of the beer garden before eventually moving inside to pay my bill.

The hours must have slipped by, because the inside of the pub was rather full for a Saturday night, and I commented as such to a guy I saw. He responded that it was normal that the pub had lots of people inside at 10.30pm, then kind of chuckled as he asked me if I knew how wobbly I was.

“Yep, I am very wobbly right now,” I said, realizing that it was best to go home immediately.

I paid up, went home, almost burned the kitchen down as I made some toast, watched another couple of episodes of 21 Jump Street, then tumbled into bed, somewhat relieved that I felt tired enough to sleep.

Though I managed to sleep for a few hours, it was far from restful, and I woke again early Sunday morning, unable to sleep any longer.

Sunday was not too different from Saturday, except without much pub time. As a bit of an anti-bonus, I experienced anxiety that normally comes on Sunday evening as I think about the coming work week for the whole day. That, combined with the fact that I washed a load of clothes without putting any detergent in with the load (which I realized after I had hung the wet clothes on the drying rack) made it a day worth forgetting.

Monday morning started brightly, as I was on the U-Bahn platform at 7.30, on time, and ready for work. Five seconds later, I was overcome with a sudden attack of gastroenteritis, and elected quickly to work from home that day, in the comfort and privacy of my flat. I cancelled some dinner plans I had made with a former colleague in Düsseldorf, believing it best to hold off until a time when my stomach would better cooperate, and managed to have a semi-productive work day.

I went to bed early that night, which just meant that I had even more hours to toss and turn. On the positive side, I got up even earlier, and took an earlier train to Düsseldorf, which enabled me to get a couple more things done in the office.

And I will spare the typing time - the rest of the week has been pretty much the same. Not a lot of sleep, not a lot of eating (however I did manage to lose about 4 kilo that I wanted to), and a few 21 Jump Street episodes just for filler.

I started writing this piece one day ago, noting an incident involving public transportation. To bring an end to this week’s update, I will note another incident from public transportation, one from my commute home this evening. As we boarded the train this evening, the conductor announced that the electronic reservation system had failed, so none of the seats in the cars of the train were marked as reserved. This does happen from time to time, and it is quite entertaining, because everyone has to fumble about with their tickets and prove that they are sitting where they are supposed to. People do not handle this very quietly, so as I finish up, I smile, thinking of what would happen if the people I am riding home with now got to hang out with the people who were waiting quietly for the U-Bahn yesterday.

Now that would be something, huh?

See you out there

bryan