Billie's Eulogy

We held a wonderful memorial for Billie on Saturday.  More than sixty-five people came, including her sister Mary and her three children, Jane, Peter and Carey.  Valery's sister Alexandra came with her partner, Steve Welch, and, of course, Chris was there with Colleen (who also did the flowers). 

I was honored to give the eulogy as Billie asked me to do many months ago. 

For those who could not be there, here is what I said:

I am here before you today to talk about Billie.

In what must surely be the best model for these kinds of speeches--in terms of both density and brevity, Lincoln famously said that “The world will little note nor long remember” what he had to say.  True though this is of the other speaker’s words that day, Mr. Lincoln’s brevity was neither despairing of the death he had come to acknowledge nor unnecessarily deprecating of the importance of his words on the occasion.

He wasn’t saying that we shouldn’t be here, conducting this ritual; or that we shouldn’t be here, saying these words.  The World doesn’t need to hear these words, the World doesn't need note them nor does the World need to plan to long remember them in order for those words to be valid and truly meaningful.

The World may not care, but we do. The important thing is that we take the time to say these words.  In such rituals as these, words make the meaning of life.

Billie (like Lynda, my other mother) knew that I am a man of too many words, so as I speak, I can hear her calling out from the peanut gallery: “Too many words, Mr. Dubov!  Too many words!”

Billie,  I will do my best to keep it short.

So, what words?  What can I say about Billie that is not hopelessly hyperbolic or morosely solemn?

Well, I could talk about her name.  Her full name was Wilma Gayle ‘Billie’ Houtman Caselli Clark.  Whew, that’s quite a mouthful.  It seems impossibly long until you do a bit of parsing.

How we got from Wilma Gayle to Billie, I am not sure, but I do know this:  if my first name was Wilma I’d change it to Billie.   I can’t say as I blame Billie for doing it.  Of course, it wasn’t her doing at all.  The nickname came from her Dad Neal, who (according to her sister Mary) started calling her “Wild Bill from Vinegar Hill”.  Now, where Vinegar Hill was and why Wild Bill should be from there is still a bit of a mystery to me.   I believe there is an old song which refers to “Dirty Bill from Vinegar Hill...he never had a bath and never will."  Well, though we all knew Billie as a clean sort, this actually refers to Billie’s long-ago tomboy days.

Yes, of the four sisters, it was Billie who was the tomboy.  To those who knew Billie as one of the most beautiful women ever to grace their vision, such humble beginnings may come as a surprise.  But it says volumes about her that when the tomboy look no longer hid the truth, Billie accepted her name, her beauty and used them both  with the skill and grace that came to define her presence in all our lives.

Houtman, of course, was her family name, which is still shared by many others in the small town of Holland Michigan.  Her grandfather was instrumental in establishing part of the town's identity--the Dutch Windmill--and her parents Dorothy and Neal were both active members of the community.  Tulip Time was always an important event in the lives of the family as the children were growing up; the girls often dressed up in traditional Dutch costumes to entertain the crowds that gathered to see the parade along 11th street in Holland.

Caselli was Billie's first married name.  Pierre Caselli was a Frenchman, transplanted to the United States as a young man, where he met Billie while attending Hotel School at Cornell.  She was in art school in Boston and they met at a restaurant where she was a waitress and he was a dishwasher. They moved to and lived for many years in Austin, where he was the manager of the Lakeway Inn, and she was a teacher.  She had three children (Alexandra, Valery and Christopher) with Pierre, who died of cancer at the early age of 49 in Austin.

Clark was Billie's second married name.  After Pierre's death in 1981, Billie and John Clark-- who had known each other for years already--began to see each other socially and eventually married in 1984. Dedicated to his wonderful ‘Bride’, John adopted and was adopted in turn by the Houtman clan, moving up to Holland be a part of their lives and to support Billie in her many artistic endeavors.

But I didn’t come to talk about Billie’s name.
I came to talk about Billie.

I suppose could talk about me, especially because there may be some of you who are wondering just who I am and why Billie asked me to deliver this eulogy.  After all, I am just an out...er, in-law.

I am a late-comer to this story, an outsider in many ways that go beyond the different last names.  But from the moment I rolled her daughter Valery up to where Billie was working (painting a sign on a door in a Westlake Hills strip mall) in a shopping cart and introduced myself, Billie treated me as her one of her own children, with all the love, respect, and no small measure of the high expectations that come with that position.

I was privileged to be loved by Billie, who offered it without condition.  In gaining her love and trust, I also felt pressed to be good.  I felt the need to do well, for her, for her daughter, for her grandchildren, but most of all for myself.  Billie was my ‘other mother’ She inspired me to be a better person and I loved her every bit as dearly as I did Lynda.  I will miss her.

But I didn’t come to talk about me.
I came to talk about Billie.

I could talk about Art (with a capital A), because Billie was an Artist (with a capital A).  More than that, she was a talented and prolific artist.  In a time when that title (“Artist”) is often assumed by individuals who are neither talented nor trained and by many more who have never actually worked at the craft, Billie was, to put it bluntly, a real artist.

Born with a great deal of God-given talent and put into practice by virtue of her own determined efforts, Billie always considered herself to be an Artist.  She never lost sight of her goal.  That means, even as she was raising her family, wiping bottoms, reading, cooking, cleaning house, taxiing kids to music lessons; even while teaching art to grade-schoolers; even while painting dentist’s names on strip mall doors, or running the Message Parlor (her sign-painting studio in Westlake), Billie was true to her passion.  Billie was always true to her Art.

One measure of her passion may be found in the body of work that she left us.  Her prolific watercolors are on many of your walls and a few are here on the tables today.  She created dozens of sculptures, many of which, by virtue of the material and the skill of the artist, will survive long beyond any of our mere accomplishments, however great they may seem to be, for such things as degrees and houses and even poems will all fade away with the steady beat of Time, while Billie’s bronzes and the images cast therein will remain for as many generations as you and I are all together capable of imagining.

But I didn’t come to talk about Art.
I came to talk about Billie.

I really should talk about family, because as important as Art was to Billie, it was not as important to her as her family was.  Billie was from a large, loving family.  She was born in 1933, the daughter of Dorothy and Neal Houtman, the third of six children.  Her sister Mary is here today and will say a few words about her, while sisters Joan and Sally and brothers Don and Ken all send their love and affection to this gathering.   Billie was always been close to her siblings (especially her sisters, two of whom lived nearby in Holland), their spouses, their children, and even their children’s children.

Billie's own three children were a special point of pride for her.  To say that they were close is an understatement of the highest order.  Billie was especially fond of the two grandchildren (Pierre and Madelaine--Valery's children) that she had an opportunity to see grow up while she lived in Austin.

(By the way, Billie's brother Ken created the video slideshow that we’ve been enjoying here today; her son Christopher collected the photos for that and the album on the table; and her daughter Alexandra provided the music.  Alex and her partner Steve Welch have been playing for us ‘live’ thanks.)

As good as her family as been to and for her, it hasn’t always been free from pain and strife.  It was in part because of this pain that because she understood the value of family in a way that most young mothers do not. After her first husband Pierre died of cancer at home, Billie had to move into a smaller house and go to work to support her family, which she did without resentment or complaint.  Later in life she and her second husband John moved to Holland to be near enough to care for her mother Dorothy.

John's unconditional love and enthusiastic support allowed Billie to flourish as an artist and to be a close part of her family.   The nearly annual family gathering during the summers in Holland was a treasured time for all us, and Billie in particular.

But I didn’t come to talk about family today.
I came to talk about Billie.

I could talk about friendship, for even though I am merely a part of her family by marriage (I snuck in through the kitchen door, so to speak), I also enjoyed the privilege of being her friend.  Many of the people here today counted Billie as a good friend.  You know that the kindness, caring and loyalty of a good friend is a rare treasure, and you know that Billie was all of those and more to many wonderful people.  Somehow, she kept up with all our lives, our children, our projects, our trips and most of all, our plans, hopes and dreams.

When you spoke with her, she would remember all those details about your life that you thought no one remembered but you.  When she did, you realized (more than once, I hope) how grateful you were for such a good friend.  We were all warmed by her charisma and nurtured by her kind thoughts and comments.  The Purples (to which my mother Lynda also belonged) was an especially important group of Billie’s friends, and they are well represented here, thank you.

But I didn’t come to talk about friendship today.
I came to talk about Billie.

I could talk about teaching, because Billie was a teacher.  And while she would have, in her typical self deprecating fashion, have discounted her abilities as a teacher, she was in fact a terrific teacher.  The importance of teachers--good teachers, like Billie--in our lives simply cannot be overstated.

What made Billie such a good teacher?  Billie made us all believe that we could be creative.  'You can’t draw a straight line?  Ok, let’s do circles.  Can’t match colors?  Ok, let’s try the color wheel.'  How to hold a brush?  What color to put down first?  How to make a mold?  A casting?  Paint an Easter egg?  All these things and more I learned from Billie.  What about you?

While she definitely took up teaching to support her family during lean times in Pierre’s career, Billie still brought her passion for Art to the classroom.  She taught her students Art because that’s what her hands knew best.  She taught many different individuals, in many different settings, from classrooms to kitchens, from pre-schoolers to seniors.

But while many learned much from Billie,  the subject was only nominally about Art.

Billie actually taught her students about Life, because that’s what her heart knew best.  If you were ever lucky enough to be in one of Billie’s art classes, or had her show you how to draw, or if you ever had her gently guide your hand with a brush or over some clay in her studio, you learned a lot more than how to make a pinch pot or a paint watercolor still life.  You learned to love Art, but thanks to Billie's guidance, you came to appreciate what lay beneath: Life itself.

Billie was a teacher, of Art, and of Life.

But I didn’t come to talk about teaching today.
I came to talk about Billie.

I considered talking about God, for Billie was a faithful servant of the Good Lord, in His many manifestations and many subtle glories.  Billie was grateful to God for more than her existence, though.  She was grateful for the world itself, for the place that defined that her being and for the people with whom she shared this place.  She often made note of the small things that most people, in a hurry at best and inattentive at worst--would walk past, overlook or simply miss.  To God, she was as grateful for the World as she was free of malice for the cancer that claimed her life.

As gracious as she was with God about the illness that took her from us, I am not.  I am tempted to rail at Him for taking Billie from us so soon.  But Billie would remind me of my manners.  She would tell me that it wasn’t God taking her from us but a disease, so if there’s any railing to be done, there are better targets than Him.

Besides, I didn’t come to talk about God.
I came to talk about Billie.

Hoo boy, I could talk about Death today.  After all is there a better time and place than a eulogy?  Probably not.  Death wasn’t something Billie ignored or pretended wasn’t going to happen.  When she was diagnosed with the Cancer that took her life, she fought with the courage and determination that defined her life.  She was as realistic as the situation required, as hopeful as she dared to be, and as resolute as she could be about facing her end.  Billie faced Death without fear or remorse and with as much dignity as any one of us could hope for.

Indeed, I can only hope that when my time comes, I will face it with the same dignity and dare I say it, style,  as Billie did.  After all, we are all facing the same fate. Quite honestly Billie (the teacher) has shown me how to do it with right, with humor, grace and charm.

But I sure didn’t come to talk about Death today.
I came to talk about Billie.

Well, it seems that in spite of all the things I have not talked about, I have managed to say a word or two about Billie.  Of course, we didn’t come here today to hear my words.  We are gathered here to remember Billie--each of us in our own unique way.

The truth is that we’ll do most of our remembering later.

We’ll remember Billie when we read something in the paper we know she would laugh at, when see a piece of art we want to tell her about, or when we hear some beautiful music that we would love to share with her.  Those moments will be bittersweet, of course.  But despair not.  In those moments, you will know that she is not gone, but that she is here with you.

It’s a fleeting feeling, I know.  But then, what feeling is not?

As we carry on (and we will), some of us will be lucky enough to see Billie live on in the mirror.  Some will see her in the hands, eyes and smiles of her children and grandchildren.  Others will enjoy the privilege of seeing Billie in their hands, hearing her in their thoughts and sharing with others that ready smile she so often graced us with.

Still others (countless others) will never have met her, but will know who she really was as they stand before one of her works.  There, they will feel her presence, resonating within them like Life’s tuning fork.  They too will come to know Billie.

Billie was a person who made each of us--and by extension, this World--better.  By better I mean that Billie brought us--each one of us here today, plus many more not present--to become wiser, kinder and gentler people, simply by her presence in our lives.  This a rare trait, but then, Billie was a rare individual.

So, what can we do for her in return? It’s not a foolish question.  Even though she is gone, there is a lot we can do for her, each of us, from this day forward.

Resolve, if you will, on this day--and every day of your life going forward--to remember Billie often and with love.  Resolve to carry on her legacy by being grateful for your life, passionate in your love, and determined to make a difference in the World.

Raise a glass today (and every day, if you will) to a wonderful person who did all that and more.

Billie, we will remember you!

Billie Houtman Caselli Clark 1933 - 2011

Billie died yesterday.

Billie was Valery's mother, of course, but she was much more than that to me.  Billie was a good friend.  She was also the Other Reader of this little journal, leaving just you, Dear Reader, to carry on here, alas.  As I was to her, I am grateful for your eyes.  I cherish yours even as I shall ever miss hers.

There is no rule that says one has to love or even like one's on-laws, but I sure loved Billie.  It is a happy circumstance for me that I met Billie twenty-eight years ago.  I was privileged during those many years--through moments happy and sad-- to love her as a son and, even better, to know her and like her as a friend.  For her part, she accepted me as both from the first moment that we met, and for that I am grateful.  She loved me as one of her own children and, as a friend, liked me enough to ask me to come see her in her final days.  I did, and it was a privilege, much as it will be to deliver a eulogy for her at the Austin memorial we plan to hold for her in the New Year.

Because she was in agreement with Lynda that I am a man of too many words, I am sure that Billie will expect me to keep my eulogy light, loving and above all, short.  Consequently, I am struggling to find not only the right words, but just the right quantity of them as well.  One strategy I have for crafting this short-but-meaningful bit of prose is to go at it several times, trying different techniques to say the things I don't even really know just yet.

One particular difficulty I have with the task is essentially self-inflicted.  Keeping with the notion that I should not do what I cannot stand to see done, I have concluded that the last thing I should talk about in Billie's eulogy would be myself.  Nonetheless, I have a story about how I met Billie that is worth writing about, even if it isn't worthy of mentioning in the eulogy.   Since this journal is about me, I think it is fair, in this context, to be a little self-indulgent.  Besides that, it does have something to say about Billie after all.

I met Billie delivering her daughter to her in a shopping cart.

Valery and I started dating shortly after Billie started dating John, sometime back in 1983.  Billie and John had known each other long before they became a couple, but by the time I met Valery, John was Billie's boyfriend.  He and I did not meet until after I met Billie, but it was indirectly because of him that I had the opportunity to roll up to her for our first encounter with Valery in a shopping cart.

John's family was in the car business in Dallas, and at the time I met him, he was working for a series of Ford dealers across the state, helping them with recruiting and training.  He was on the road a lot, traveling from dealer to dealer.  Because of his position, he was always finding good used cars that he could buy for a song and use as a road warrior car until it was used up.

Then, he'd sell it to a dealer for the remainder and move on to the next one.  He often had more than one car like this on hand, and sometimes he left them at Billie's house, for her use or for Valery or Chris--both of whom had cars of questionable reliability at best--to use.  The cars were always Ford or its upscale cousin, Mercury.  It was, I believe, a Mercury that Valery had borrowed and that she and I were driving when it gave us the chance to meet Billie for the first time.

In fact, it was Valery who was driving, so at first, I did not notice the plume of white smoke that was trailing us down Bee Cave Road as we headed toward MoPac.  But when we got down just past Westlake drive, the engine began to sputter and the now noticeable smoke turned from an ominous grey to a deadly black.  Before long we coasted to the side of the road right in front of a newly built shopping center on Bee Cave Road.  This being Westlake, it was a strip mall, and we were fortunate enough to coax the ailing Merc into a parking space at the far edge of the parking lot.

For some reason, Valery knew that this was the very place where her mother happened to be working that day, painting a sign on a dentist's door in the mall.  How she knew this, I don't know.  How we came to be at that particular mall on the very morning when Billie was there at work, I do know.

It's called synchronicity, and I've written about it often enough not to have to bore you with an explanation.  It's enough to say here that synchronicity was central to my life prior to this meeting, and that this encounter certainly served to provide further support for my belief.

It's worth mentioning that the reason Billie was at this particular mall, painting on this particular day was because that was what she did for a living.  She had an art studio, which she called the Message Parlour in small house (in which she also lived) on Bee Cave Road.  The name of the studio often led to confusion, especially to the men who would stop to partake of her services only to discover to their surprise and chagrin that those services did not extend to the laying on of hands (so to speak) that was expected.

So it was that Billie happened to be hand lettering a sign on the glass door of one of the outlying spaces in the mall when our dying Mercury delivered us to within meeting distance that day.  The distance, though small by comparison with that which had separated us previously, seemed too great for our impatient youth, so we commandeered an empty shopping cart that had been abandoned in the parking lot, loaded Valery into the basket and rolled off in search of her Mom.  When we roared up, laughing and screaming, Billie was just finishing the job, and looked up incredulously at the sight.

I don't recall much about what we said, but I can recall my first impressions.  First of all, she was nice.  I can recall her wonderful smile and welcoming attitude.  I don't know how much she knew about me, but it was probably nothing.  Valery had had a number of suitors in her day, so it was no surprise to Billie to see her with a new guy, I am sure.  She didn't treat me like that, however.  She was open and kind, curious but not prying.  She treated me with such respect that I was encouraged to think that I could meet with her approval as a mate for her daughter.  Good news for the new guy.

I was also impressed with her beauty.  It is fair to say that her profoundly kind and welcoming nature reinforced and compounded that beauty, but in all honesty, Billie's was the kind of pure and natural physical beauty that could take a man's breath away.  And so it did with me.

This experience was not new to me, though I confess that it had only happened to me with such force only once before, rather recently, when I met Valery for the first time.  You'll recall, Dear Reader, of the day when my life changed forever, but until I met Billie, I did not know of the source of Valery's captivating beauty.  Then, all of a sudden, I was face to face with a vision of Valery thirty years on.  And what a fabulous vision it was.

It's safe to say that had Valery had the same experience seeing my father Bill, she would not have been impressed with what was to come for me, physically.  Suffice it to say that although it wasn't much, I had a bit more hair than I do today.  Though I had some semblance of good looks in those youthful days, I doubt that Valery had any expectation of my getting better looking with age.

Seeing Billie, however, I concluded just the opposite about my future Bride.  I knew that as beautiful as she already was, Valery was going to become more beautiful as she got older.  Honestly, it wasn't until I met Billie that I knew just how much Valery would change for the better.  Valery will, of course, disagree with me on this point.  She is not happy about the effect that time has had on her countenance, but in truth, she is even more beautiful and captivating today than she was as a mere youth.

So on that day, as we rolled up to our first encounter, Billie and me, I was doubly fortunate in that delightful vision.  And so it is that today, even though I have lost one half of that vision, I will take some comfort knowing I'll see Billie every day, in her daughter's hands, her face, and in her smile.

Fire!

Fire!

Apparently, this is what one should yell if immediate assistance is required from people who do not know you.  Yelling "help" is like setting off a car alarm at three in the morning--no one hears it and even if they do, it's regarded as an annoyance (those damn kids!) rather than an emergency.

But yelling "fire" is something that will always get your attention.  Why?

To begin with, fire is ruthless and indiscriminate.  Everyone knows that it does not matter how rich you are, where you live or how much insurance you have.  Fire doesn't care whose house it is burning.  The fear of having one's house burned down to the ground is a deep-seated, primal fear that we all have built right into us, regardless of whether we live in a hut or a palace, in a desert or a tropical paradise.

Fear of fire is as basic as it gets, but fear of what fire will do to our possessions comes pretty close.  After all, to have one's house burn down is to experience denial of one of our most basic needs.  Like dying of hunger or exposure, the fear of dying in a fire is primal.  But why?  What are we afraid of, exactly?

What is in our homes--besides life: people and the animals--that is so incredibly important?  Is it our money?  Our jewelry?  Photographs, furniture or clothing?  Food?  Art?  What do we value most?  Given the limiting constraints of pressing time and minimal space, what will we choose to save?

Is there anything in our houses that we would not trade for our lives or the lives of our loved ones or animals?

I don't think so.  It's a cliche to say something like, "material things don't matter.  What's important are the lives of my family and our animals." It sounds hollow, especially on TV with a camera pointed a some poor person who's just lost everything.  At the heart of every cliche however, there is some truth, and the truth of the matter is that we're all happy to make the deal of a lifetime:  If we may live, the fire may have it all.

Oh, and it will.  The fire can and will have all the possessions, the acquisitions, all the inheritances and every bit of stuff that it chooses.  It can have all the tangible bits of flotsam and jetsam that comprise our lives outside of our minds and experiences.  Fire will take all that is mere detritus, just the barnacles on a hull, living with us but not for us.

Fire can actually be a cleansing, a removal of the waste that surrounds us.

After all, things themselves are here only to break our hearts.  Lost, stolen or destroyed, all things eventually fall from our grasp.  Why then do we reach for them in the first place?  What gives us the idea that we may claim ownership of any bit of matter in the universe other than the atoms and molecules that comprise ours cells?

Remember, we are all but renters in the Big City of Life.  Our quarters, however luxurious or spare they may be are but temporary abodes, a small set of things assembled briefly at a set of coordinates in Cartesian time and Quantum space.

Those things are meaningless outside of the context that binds them together--us.

Like pearls on a string, things are someday to be undone.  Some day the knot will break. All those things that seemed so tightly and permanently bound together in our lives will fall and scatter.  Some we will catch and save, but some will roll out the door and into the gutter and thence to the sewer.  Still others will be spotted and claimed by other Magpies, delighted by the shininess and roundness of their being.

Life is a sieve.  Only those bits that are small enough to pass will remain.

Brother's Day

Now that Lynda is gone, it's easy to count Mother's Day out as one of those artificial 'Hallmark' holidays, especially because it's also one of those days when I always have to work at the restaurant.  Now, on this day I am quite naturally thinking of Lynda, but I am also thinking of my brothers.

I think of Lynda often.  I think of her when I see my hands, when I hear my sigh, when I look in the mirror. I talk to myself the way that she did, knowing, now, what that conversation is about.  My blue eyes seem to have faded just a shade of late, now more than ever resembling Lynda's soft grey-blue eyes.

What's missing, though, is the contact, the talk, the reassurance that it--whatever it happened to be at the moment--would be alright.  I think it's safe to say that we never grow too old to be reassured by our mothers, and if there is any one single thing that makes us regret their absence it would be that.

It's a complicated emotion.  I miss her taking care of me long after I needed taking care of, but I also miss taking care of her, long after that care was needed.  I try to substitute for this with my Hospice work, but it is to be expected that it is just--not the same.  My contact with Mr. B. has been limited of late, not just by my schedule, but also by his reluctance to interact.  Then again, the volunteer work was never intended to be anything like what I shared with Lynda.

In the years since she's been gone, sharing time with my brother Stephen has helped close the gap considerably.  Our (nearly) weekly lunches give us the time and opportunity to talk about life at the pace it develops, slowly, instead of in big gulps at rare moments.  I see in his hands, feel in his eyes, and hear in his sighs the same vision of Lynda as my own.

It is, of course, a variation on a highly personal theme. David is another important manifestation of  this phenomenon.  Though he is more distant physically, our almost daily interaction via the net has drawn us closer than we've been since we were boys.  I know that he--like Stephen and me--thinks of her a lot and that sees her regularly in his daily life.

So, while I mourn the absence of Lynda and hold fast to the hope that Billie will be here for another year, I have to come to terms with what this day might mean for me in the future.  It's not an artificial holiday unless we make it so.  In fact, since I need look no further than either of my brothers for my reassurance and that sense of continuity that I need, I guess I ought to start calling it Brother's Day. 

The Circle Expands

We have, in our household, created a tradition of sorts. When we gather round the dinner table, no matter the number, before we begin eating, we form a circle. We always join hands for a moment and say 'thank you' for the blessings we feel have been bestowed upon us that day. It has become a standard line, one with which all diners at the Dubov's are familiar:

"Thank you, Lord, for bringing us all together, for one more day."

With hands still joined in a circle, each person says what they are thankful for, that day, that minute or just in general. We laugh. We roll our eyes. It's all good.

We began this little tradition when our children were very small. The thought is that while we are all inclined to say what we are thankful for on Thanksgiving, when such considerations are expected, it would be useful to remember what makes us grateful on each and every day.

In the early days, Lynda would often join us. Given her age, I was mindful of the day when we wouldn't be "all together". In a way, it was a hedge against the certain future. Then, when Lynda died it seemed ironic, after all this time. And when Pierre died it seemed tragic.

But we kept forming that circle, night after night, no matter how many--or few--hands actually joined together for that one more day. Some days, it seemed like we said it out of habit; other days it was especially meaningful.

Given the events of the past couple of years, it often felt more like the former than the latter.

Then, when Nora was born, the circle expanded. Although she did not yet partake of Valery's fabulous cuisine, Nora came--with her parents in tow, of course--to Dine with the Dubovs.

Now, while I might have expected this--for Nora's birth came as no surprise--and I've had some time to consider how it might change our lives, the perfection of the circle came as revelation to me.

What circle is not perfect?

Unlike all other symbolic forms, the circle can contract or expand while losing nothing and gaining all. I see that death diminishes the circle not, for the absent, whether they be passed on, or merely in D.C., Michigan, California or across town, are always with us.

Those not or no longer in the circle are always there, in the hands held, the eyes met, the smiles mirrored. Birth, though it may not improve upon the perfection of the circle, expands it to encompass more hearts. The pulse of the family grows stronger.

The circle binds us by defining us. To be bound to anything is an curse to some; for me, the circle of hands around the table is life. Why shouldn't it be so?

I am bound so many things it seems pointless to rail against them all, or even one. I am bound by gravity to this sphere, by love to this woman, by honor to this family. Best of all to me is the fact that while so little of my life is actually of my making, I am undeniably made real and my life is given its value, by the bindings that are these relations.

Without that circle I would not wish to exist. That's easy enough to say, and may sound odd to others, as if spoken by the goldfish to the hungry housecat. Of course I like my little sphere. And my little rose. Is it merely because I know no different?

I know not.

What I know is this: When her soft cry mingled with the sound of clinking glasses, laughter and good conversation, Nora joined our circle. After but a few short weeks in this world, she's found her way to one of it's sweet spots.

Tout le monde! A table!

Sit, Loki, sit!

It has been about two weeks and the new member of our family is beginning to settle in to his new home in our house and hearts. It's an entirely new experience for me, one that I am really enjoying even though I have no idea what I am doing.

Valery bought a book about Border Collies from which I have already learned a great deal about the consistent care and focused training Loki will require in order to live successfully with us. I really think we've made the right choice with him but we really have to do some work here in the beginning. Actually, training him correctly will be a lot more like fun than work, even though it requires being consistent and focused--like work--because his energy and enthusiasm make the activity an exciting and rewarding for all of us, the dog included.

The first thing he is learning is how to sit. He already does it on command about ninety percent of the time, and clearly understands it as a command. As a puppy he requires constant reinforcement to make the connection between commands and actions, and as new dog owners, we require a similar reinforcement to make the connection between our desires and the dogs actions. He really does get it when you tell him, but I have learned that we've got to tell him, constantly and in a consistent, uncompromising way.

Anyone who tells you that there are similarities between raising a child and training a puppy has probably never done both successfully. It would be nice to think that our experiences with child rearing would come in handy for this exercise, but raising a dog requires a different, more basic set of skills. We decided to follow the book on training this one. Fortunately, there is one.

Pierre's Birthday

From P's Tree

Well, today was indeed a poignant anniversary. The sky was full of clouds and it threatened to rain for the first time in over two months, but it was only a feint, and even had it poured, it would not have deterred us from our task of the day.

Today we buried Pierre, on what would have been his twenty-first birthday. I know, it's odd, backwards, even, being buried not on one's death day, but on the anniversary of one's birth. It is, however, an appropriately symbolic event to honor Pierre, who would have, at the very least, appreciated the irony. He'd also have loved the tree that we planted for him; a tall thin newly emerging Pecan. It has a slight bend in the middle and a twist overall as it reaches up for the open sky.

My hands and back hurt from the labor of the day. We not only planted the tree, but also built a low retaining wall around it in the back yard, defining the space and leveling the yard from the back of the house out. We will plant a garden around the tree and set up a flagstone patio below the wall to place the hammock where Valery can enjoy a view of the greenbelt with the shade of Pierre's tree overhead.

The pain of hard labor is good for me, however. It blocks from my mind the pain of my heart, though on such a day I have no reason to hold back my emotions and did not. We had a couple of good cries, if you can call them that, for the tears come not in torrents or waves, but in pulses of thick feelings, like molten magma forcing its way through the hardened crust. The will of the earth is strong, but the force of liquid rock is stronger. The annealing power of pain is repeated, pounded and folded into the blade of my heart. Each pass through the fire readies me for a new shape, but nothing can prepare me for hurt of the hammer as it strikes again and again.

Even knowing that I will emerge stronger from the experience has no palliative power; little wonder it is, knowing as I do that we all succumb to the transformative force of death. For most of us, death comes but a little at a time. Pierre, in his way, simply took his entire dose at once. Never one to turn from the truth, he has gone to meet it, while I will wait a while longer if I can.

To say that miss him is to understate that truth, so in keeping with my philosophy of taking only what I need and can digest, for now, I will miss him only as much as I can today, and leave the rest for tomorrow.

Pierre, my beautiful and lost child, I love you.

Cancer College

Although I have been back in College now for more than two years, it was not until my cousin Diane gave to this experience the power of metaphor than I am even able to write about it.

But Diane is a cancer survivor, and has taken the much more advanced classes, so to speak. Her wisdom does not come from here but rather, is brought to it. As a mere witness, I have been struggling with myself to even admit that the disease is here and now and a part of my life and far too many of those I love.

But it is, most certainly. Besides Diane, my Mother-in-law, Billie is afflicted with cancer, as is my long-time friend and mentor, Francesca. Of course, Lynda died of the same, so you'd think I'd be past the denial stage by now, wouldn't you? You think that Lynda, with her legendary strength of will and determination to live life gracefully, would have made peace with it in her many advanced seminars prior to her death. It's what I used to think.

Now, what I do know is that these strong and beautiful women--who are not in denial because the have no such luxury--are showing me the way to deal with cancer with grace and dignity. They do not hesitate to talk about it, though I know that they are weary to do so. These wonderful individuals have the ability to uplift those of us who would selfishly decide to be depressed because we are unable to act. In other words, me.

Or so I thought. While I struggle with what to say to them, they have no trouble telling me what I must hear. It is not death, they say, nor even a death sentence, any more than any of us have. All life is a journey, and the length of the journey is not entirely in our hands.

So, Billie tells me that her treatments are going well, even if they make her nauseous and weak at first. Rebounding from the poison has got to feel good, and there is reason to believe that it will arrest the development of the cancer and allow her to continue to travel and create for the foreseeable future. For my part, knowing that she is being active in her self-defense yet reasonable in her expectations is evidence of her profound wisdom and spiritual strength.

Francesca has now survived an operation and a series of chemo/radiation treatments and has similarly showed how a diligent treatment plan coupled with a positive attitude can increase the odds of survival. From her I have learned how much depends on finding the calm at the center of the cyclone, remaining there till the rage and pain have passed.

Diane, too, has written with the news that her surgery was successful and that further treatments will not be required. Though I knew only the outlines of her struggle till I read her most recent note to the family, it is to her spirit, strength and recovery that I credit my release from denial and my ability to write about this at last.

Would that this realization, in addition to the love and respect I have for these women be enough to change their conditions, but that would be hubris. It is enough to know that still here and now.

Optimism and Fatalistic Paralysis

One of the things I recall most clearly about my father Bill was his optimism. This is ironic, really, since one of the other things I recall most clearly about his was his fatalistic paralysis. Both of these statements will require some clarification, and two distinct memories will serve to illustrate the seemingly disjunctive connection that relates them in my mind.

First, the optimism. One of the very first conversations--if not the first--that I recall having with my father took place in the foyer of our house at 304 Grape Street in Abilene, Texas and the subject was impossibility.

I could not have been more than five years old then, since I'd have been at school at the time of day I recall the conversation otherwise. The heavy yellow-orange morning light was flooding the small square foyer in our two-story house.

The main door opened directly into it, and though it was closed to hold back the heat, on either side of the door were two tall windows that let in enough light to scald the eye if not buffered by a gauzy white curtain stretched floor to ceiling.

In this bright spot was kept one of our family's great treasures, the grandfather clock. This fabulously ornate timepiece stands nearly eleven feet tall with it's feet and finial both. Currently it sits without feet in my home, though this is hardly the place for it because it belongs to Stephen (Bill gave it to him before he died) and it hardly has the venue it did back in the house on Grape St.

This was an old house, built as a sort of colonial homestead. It had two stories, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, den, living and dining rooms, kitchen and big back yard complete with an old well. The place had the high ceilings needed to showcase the clock and we did. The clock was standing guard right there, the first thing you saw when you came in, all knurled brass and dark carved wood with a big brass pendulum and a rotating picture above the face that showed the phases of the moon.

The clock had to be wound, once a week. Watching Bill with his clock winding ritual was not unlike many other rituals of his (shaving, counting money) ie, mesmerizing. But the clock-winding held a particular fascination for me. Thus I was always in attendance on the morning of clock-winding day, and as usual, full of questions to ask and certainties to share that I'd come with on my own.

One of those certainties espoused, though I remember not the subject, had to do with something being 'impossible' and it was his reply that I recall so clearly.

"Nothing is impossible" he said.

Now, at this point in my life I do not suffer cliches lightly, though I do acknowledge the truth that they invariably contain. Hearing that statement now simply brings up the ever-present wry smile on my face up a notch, but then, back in 1961 or whatever year it was, to me, this was an incredible concept.

Incredible is the right word, too. I simply didn't believe him. I was thinking, naturally, about physics. Like rocks floating and water flowing up hill. But he was dead serious and kept his to his position. I don't recall the details of the conversation; it is the astonishment that I recall feeling;. I was overwhelmed with the idea that somehow, thought--my thought--itself was capable of transcending impossibility. For the first time, I had the realization that maybe, just maybe, nothing was impossible.

I was skeptical, as I am today, but I also remember thinking, 'What if he is right?'

That very thought cut my mind free from it's moorings, so to speak, and ever since I have pondered some very interesting and well-nigh 'impossible' thoughts without any credentials other than the carte blanche Bill gave me that bright clock-winding morning.

Was this optimism? I don't know. I certainly read it as such, for many years now. I stored away the memory, but honestly this had more to do with me than him. After all, how well did this notion match up with the real Bill?

The real Bill was an intelligent man, possessed of a catalog-type mind that collected trivia and jokes. He also displayed a wonderful loving spirit and had a warm heart. He loved cats. I remember him smiling more often than not. But I also recall the fatalistic paralysis that overtook him in the second half of his short life.

One day when I was a senior in high school, after he'd been ill with heart disease for at least four or five years, he called me into his bedroom when he was in bed and asked me to sit and talk with him.

I can't recall another time when he did this, even as he grew close to death. He was not one to initiate an intimate conversation. We never discussed his death but this once. He told me that he didn't expect to live long, but he also had no intention of dying soon. At this point Lynda was getting geared up to move to Europe and the choice Bill faced was not easy. If his health failed, he wouldn't be able to go with Lynda, and he speculated that she would leave him. He was candid about it, but not rancorous. He knew he was on thin ice with Lynda, and his health was only part of the problem.

But, he said, "I have no way out."

Holding his hand, looking at him in bed that day I realized, for the first time, despite having seen him near death in an hospital bead after his heart attack, that he was actually getting old. He was right, he wasn't going to live long. But his conviction to remain with Lynda was such that he resolved to go and indeed rallied to find the strength to accompany her on her upcoming dervish drive though Europe.

I thought about this conversation a lot as I got older; obviously I still do. I could see in his eyes that resignation earned of so many failed efforts that came before, like his careers in photography and 'healing'. Lynda openly referred to him as a 'failure'.

Although I felt differently at the time we talked, now I don't think he was a failure because I realize and felt so strongly his love for me. I think that he failed to have a successful career because, in a cruel twist of fate, he could always see the failure that his inaction would inevitably lead to. He thus became paralyzed into the inaction that would cause the failure. It was the perfect little recipe for failure; self-rising, to twist the metaphor.

So he did indeed remain with Lynda, and she with him, despite long odds. The fact that she didn't leave him or that he didn't die right away is remarkable, but those are other stories.

Returning to Bill

Of late I have been thinking a lot about my father, Bill. Of course, it has a lot to do with the new camera, but it also has something to do with Lynda's passing.

As long as she was alive, we didn't often speak of Bill. Mostly, I think this was because it opened up a cache of often-bitter memories for her and I was none too eager to delve into them. Though she came to terms with him late in his life, after his death, she vowed to 'remember and speak only of the good things.' Then she never spoke of him again.

Well, that's not really true, but she certainly didn't speak of him often, nor in particularly reverential terms. I sometimes would ask about him, but her recollections were deliberately vague and I didn't press.

Since Lynda essentially lived with us, it became my concern to deal with the living. I discarded, or at least set aside, my feelings and thoughts about Bill. Save his sister Rae, I think it's safe to say that no one other than my siblings are particularly interested in him. And even with that said, in all honesty, it's fair to say that only David and I share the love that we as sons had--still have--for our Dad.

This is not to disregard the feelings that Stephen and Anne might have had for him, but he arrived late enough in their lives that the love they had for him found its origins in the love and respect they already had for Lynda. As her choice, they accepted him. They were soon gone, however. In Stephen's case it came a mere five years after Bill married Lynda, and Anne was gone three years after that.

Even David and I have different recollections because he lived with Bill for a lot longer than did I. From early childhood, David was closer to Bill and I was closer to Lynda, so we have naturally different perspectives. I know we agree that he was a most loving individual, with a ready smile and, for the most part, a positive attitude. There is an irony there, since he didn't live long enough to prove the benefits of such an attitude, but of the many things I recall about his illness and painfully slow demise, one thing that stands out was his lack of complaint.

In fact, I really do not recall a single incident when Bill lamented in the way that Lynda did, or, for that matter, I still so often do. I cannot say what demons he had inside or faced or did not face in the years and months and hours before his death, for it seems I was with him less often than not, and I was not there when he died, alas.

But I do know this. Whenever I saw him, whenever he held my hand or held me in his arms, I felt the intense love that Bill had for me. As my life regains some balance now and he re-emerges as a force in my life, I see that I carry a bit of Bill's spirit still with me today.

Michigan Summer

Well, though I am back from Michigan already, as always, my heart is still there, resting in the cool instead of steaming in the heat.

This trip was particularly enjoyable, I suppose because the family was limited to just a few. Of course, one of the things that so satisfied me when I first became a part of this family was the size, but this time I found it enjoyable to be in a relatively small group. We are lucky to have such close bonds with our extended family, but at the end of the day, it really is only the members of the immediate family that are really close, and that is as it should be.

We gathered for John's 75th birthday, and his family--Katherine, Chris and his wife Caroline--were in attendance for the first time, so we had the pleasure of introducing them to and watching them indulge in many of the simple joys that summer in Holland has to offer.

From Farmer's Market (where I could not resist taking pictures of the colorful produce and flowers), to the cool granite beach sand (that squeaks when you walk on it), and the tangy taste of blueberries (right off the bush), there are some things I have discovered in Holland that I've had nowhere else.

For example, unlike on even the best golf course Austin (where I've played but once), in Holland, I enjoyed the intense pleasure of hitting a golf ball off a lush green fairway, and then, the concomittent semi-pleasure of hitting a golf ball out of the first cut of rough along the same fairway--and then, of course, hitting out of the deep rough off the same damn fairway...but no more about that here! I got play with my favorite playing partner, Chris, and the best part was that there was no wait and no one playing in behind us. Steve joined us one day and was a delightful addition to our routine. He is a good player but also relaxed and always funny! A leisure sport, the way it was supposed to be.

I enjoyed some wonderful early morning walks on the beach with Valery. She is the perfect person to walk with in the morning. She is energetic but quiet. She is the most beautiful creature I have ever known, and the vision I had of her in the light on the beach as the sun comes up confirms this fact.

Another wonderful aspect of this trip was that Maddie was able to join us, thanks to the generosity of her grandparents and her own ability to navigate from her apartment in Portland to the airport in Grand Rapids, Michigan. It's an understatement to say that it was a delight to see her, especially since this is the longest I've ever been away from her (or is it the other way round?) and I must say, she looked really good.

First of all, she cut her hair short again, and dyed it blue-black (sort of like Superman) so she looks very chic and, as someone said, very 'west coast'. Second, she has lost a lot of weight. And it's not like she's just dropped a few pounds overall, but she has slimmed down and her body has been re-shaped.

To be sure, she is still 'curvy' (her words) but the baby fat is gone and what's left is a beautiful young woman. She still hides the body because she has yet to have anyone appreciate it, but that will come. She's obviously in no rush to find someone, nor am I anxious to see her 'found'. I would love to see someone love her for who she is, but that's not up to me, now is it? It all goes so fast; I need only turn round and things will have changed.

Speaking of change, I can't let this entry pass without noting the profound change that took place in our family during this trip. It's like the proverbial 500-pound gorilla in the room; you can't ignore it but you don't want to let it take over, so here goes.

Billie is not well. This is my beloved mother-in-law who is more mother to me than my own; she is the woman who gave to the world and thence to me the greatest gift I have ever received: her daughter Valery. From this love has flowed everything I have known and loved for the past twenty five years. I do not know how I shall manage without it. I'll not dwell on that here, though, as there is much still to be done and much still to be said yet. Now is not the time for tears.

Change is always with us. We are change embodied, and for better or worse, we must always embrace it.

Dining with the Dubovs

So, I heard on the radio the other morning a story that attempted to explain the relationship between the act of a family eating dinner together and the relative strength or functionality of that family.

The essential premise of the story was that some researchers somewhere had concluded that there was a relationship between communal dining and the relative success of the children in that family. In other words, the idea is that the more often a family eats together, the less likely it is that the children will use or abuse alcohol or drugs and the more likely it is that they will go to school and get good grades. Now, the uselessness of comparing good grades to functionality is not worth mentioning here with more than this dismissal, but I since I am interested to know if our having eaten together as a family since our children were tiny is bound to produce any beneficial effects for our offspring, I want to give the idea some more consideration.

We've eaten together as a family for all of our children's lives. At 18 and 20, they are both about to leave home, and as they do, it's worth wondering, for me anyway, whether or not all those meals together had the intended good. After all, we are not without difficulties here in this family, with grades and drugs both. Yet, in spite of our tribulations, I have never felt our problems, or those of our children to be impossible to overcome, nor so inevitable as to be pointless to struggle against. In fact, dinner time has been our most interesting time as a family; it is when we've manged to reach our most solid agreements, and come to some spectacularly showy disagreements!

A communal meal is a crucible for human behavior I believe. On this Valery and I agreed long before we had children, and we've made every effort to make dinner in our house a welcoming and warm social event. Of course it doesn't hurt that Valery is fabulous cook, but I can say with some pride that it was most often to our table that our children's friends flocked over the years, and many still do. Few have failed to jump at the invitation to return our table once they've been there just once. More than one of Pierre's and Maddie's friends have told us how much they've enjoyed our table and the pleasure of being a part of our 'banquets', even though they were really simple but freshly prepared meals

We've done this over the years as a matter of principle; a 'food is free' sort of philosophy, and not as an inocculation for our children's health or to boost their grades so they can get better jobs. No, we ate dinner together it because it seemed, and of course, still does, like the right thing to do. We actually enjoy each other's company. Everyone gets to have their say. The small details that get swallowed up so fast in life these days are made meaningful in the time we have together. We talk of the most minute daily happenings and thoughts, plan, dream and tease each other. We reminisce and speak often of our cats, those children to our children who also fill our lives with love and affection.

The conversation at our table is not always deep but most often we find a way to have a laugh or two and perhaps share some wonderment at the world. This is what I try specifically to bring to the table. Lynda used to say that there are three things you can talk about: people, things or ideas. For my part, I love talking about the latter. I love to talk about the art thoughts and ideas that have changed or are changing the world; dreams are not to be discounted and generosity of thought and spirit is to be reinforced.

The question is, has it made any difference?

Interestingly, this is the exact opposite direction from the one that the radio story took, choosing instead to test the premise that eating together more frequently would and could somehow help the dis-functional family. In other words, the premise was that dinner's magical 'family-regenerating' power has already been proven. It is like a medication; take two of these a week and your family's mental will improve. Oh, and your kids will get better grades. Right.

I guess I am torn here because I so obviously believe that that eating together is among the most important and oldest of human traditions, yet I also remain unconvinced that it in fact holds the power that I once thought it did. Despite the double negativity, that seems to sum it up pretty well. While I am obliged to admit that the alternative couldn't have been better, and therefore conclude that it is clear that my misgivings are mostly self-directed doubt, questions like these are the essence of my thoughts.