Beautifully written reminiscence. Life is a strange place, especially for people like you and I who are in the very ywilight years. And we get to reflect back on the "Forking paths" of our lives. Jorge Borges was very prescient about that. It's funny how you think that your life or even lifespan will in some way reflect that of your parents or grandparents. I too had a father and grandfather die young at 50, and to some extent felt that might be my lifespan as well. And perhaps unconsciously I lived my life a certain way, predicated on that thought. Though, no one can predict various twists and turns, And here I am in my mid-70s still tooling around, though more slowly for sure.
Oh my goodness, I didn't think I would even read this and it has prompted this reply. Yes on the simple minds of creatures without memories or other thoughts. My immediate response to this is we are over informed.
I too remember being very young, unable to decipher my mom's silent tears in her bedroom while she stared out the window into our backyard. I was without the words to express condolences, or care, worried if it would make her madder or sadder if I said anything. I still don't know what that was about but it went on for months.
Here's the important part. We were sailing around for months visiting different places in Mexico during the 1990's with our 12 year old daughter. One place we anchored, along with a lot of other cruising boats, was outside of the city of La Paz, Mexico. The owners of the marina there had a little dock for cruisers to tie up too, and a very nice restaurant overlooking the bay. Locals and sailors were their main customers. We decided to splurge on a restaurant breakfast. They were kind enough to let us use their docks. They had a TV mounted in the corner. We had not seen a screen of any sort for weeks and weeks. We were mesmerized. We were completely removed from the political scene in the USA. The news was on in English.
After our meal we decided nothing had changed, it wasn't that important. What was important was finding our fresh produce at the public market, which we had to walk blocks to get to, and managing our lives on a no frills sailing expedition. Our minds were in a completely better place. Probably like the turkey and the coyote.
Thank you for sharing this story of your grandparents. I never knew my paternal grandparents, who both died when I was a baby. 30 years ago, (when he was the age I am now), my father, (having become sober after 50 years of drinking), came to visit me and make amends. He told me a bit about his parents and the dynamics of their marriage, which gave me a better understanding of his childhood and the forces that shaped him. I am forever grateful that we reconciled before Dad died a brief four years later. Each of us has been shaped by our circumstances and those of the people who raised us. Realizing that can open the heart to compassion and forgiveness and restore broken relationships.
This is a gorgeous recollection—so full of precise, striking images. It's an essay but it somehow conveys the white space of a poem. Such a poignant, moving piece.
How lovely! Thanks for sharing. I wonder about the poet's grandparents too, and yet, feel I learned so very much about them both, and both seem conundrums to life, while also as clear as the scuffle between the turkey and the coyote. I think I will be thinking about them for days.
I was 19, so of course you seemed very old. My name is Joanna Wissinger. Such a bizarre feeling when people you think only exist as past memories turn out to be real
Great story. What's shocking that he was 61, which in my eyes (and I'm sure in the author's) seems quite youthful today -- at least for someone who does not have a serious disability or illness. And grandfather apparently had the strength to outrun a streetcar and start beating up the driver. Today it would be more usual than not for a man of 61 to live a lot longer. I'm sorry Sydney did not have the experience of seeing his grandfather in advanced age from his own perspective as an adult. From what friends and relatives tell me, hot-tempered men often cool down in later years and become very different from the way they remembered their fathers, grandfathers, uncles, etc., as children.
To give an extreme example, the US has a lot of prisoners in advanced ages, often in ill health, who are nothing like the violent or malevolent criminals they were thirty or forty years ago.
But then again, maybe that kind of anger kills people early.
This essay was beautiful. Reminded me of my relationship with my own (maternal) grandfather. He was my mother's stepfather and within the past year or so discovered that my mom hated him. I remember my sister and riding with him in his big blue truck. We went through a hilly intersection at a stoplight one day and it felt like were flying. We threw our hands up like we were on a rollercoaster and laughed our heads off, wanting him to do it again.
Beautifully written reminiscence. Life is a strange place, especially for people like you and I who are in the very ywilight years. And we get to reflect back on the "Forking paths" of our lives. Jorge Borges was very prescient about that. It's funny how you think that your life or even lifespan will in some way reflect that of your parents or grandparents. I too had a father and grandfather die young at 50, and to some extent felt that might be my lifespan as well. And perhaps unconsciously I lived my life a certain way, predicated on that thought. Though, no one can predict various twists and turns, And here I am in my mid-70s still tooling around, though more slowly for sure.
Thanks. Keep toolin’!
Oh my goodness, I didn't think I would even read this and it has prompted this reply. Yes on the simple minds of creatures without memories or other thoughts. My immediate response to this is we are over informed.
I too remember being very young, unable to decipher my mom's silent tears in her bedroom while she stared out the window into our backyard. I was without the words to express condolences, or care, worried if it would make her madder or sadder if I said anything. I still don't know what that was about but it went on for months.
Here's the important part. We were sailing around for months visiting different places in Mexico during the 1990's with our 12 year old daughter. One place we anchored, along with a lot of other cruising boats, was outside of the city of La Paz, Mexico. The owners of the marina there had a little dock for cruisers to tie up too, and a very nice restaurant overlooking the bay. Locals and sailors were their main customers. We decided to splurge on a restaurant breakfast. They were kind enough to let us use their docks. They had a TV mounted in the corner. We had not seen a screen of any sort for weeks and weeks. We were mesmerized. We were completely removed from the political scene in the USA. The news was on in English.
After our meal we decided nothing had changed, it wasn't that important. What was important was finding our fresh produce at the public market, which we had to walk blocks to get to, and managing our lives on a no frills sailing expedition. Our minds were in a completely better place. Probably like the turkey and the coyote.
Thank you for sharing this story of your grandparents. I never knew my paternal grandparents, who both died when I was a baby. 30 years ago, (when he was the age I am now), my father, (having become sober after 50 years of drinking), came to visit me and make amends. He told me a bit about his parents and the dynamics of their marriage, which gave me a better understanding of his childhood and the forces that shaped him. I am forever grateful that we reconciled before Dad died a brief four years later. Each of us has been shaped by our circumstances and those of the people who raised us. Realizing that can open the heart to compassion and forgiveness and restore broken relationships.
I love this. Thank you.
This is a gorgeous recollection—so full of precise, striking images. It's an essay but it somehow conveys the white space of a poem. Such a poignant, moving piece.
How lovely! Thanks for sharing. I wonder about the poet's grandparents too, and yet, feel I learned so very much about them both, and both seem conundrums to life, while also as clear as the scuffle between the turkey and the coyote. I think I will be thinking about them for days.
This is absolutely breathtaking! Thank you!
Thank YOU!
Hey I took a poetry seminar with Sydney Lea at Yale in 1979!
Identify yourself, friend! I was 36 at the time btw.
I was 19, so of course you seemed very old. My name is Joanna Wissinger. Such a bizarre feeling when people you think only exist as past memories turn out to be real
Funny, I remember you and most of your classmates. 3-4 decades later, I forgot names within a month of term’s end. Be well!
You are doing better than I am, since I can't remember anyone from that class other than Dan Duffy (we are still friends)
Oh, wow! Small world.
Every so often!
I was 19 and probably thought he was about 50 or so.
Lovely. Thanks for sharing.
Great story. What's shocking that he was 61, which in my eyes (and I'm sure in the author's) seems quite youthful today -- at least for someone who does not have a serious disability or illness. And grandfather apparently had the strength to outrun a streetcar and start beating up the driver. Today it would be more usual than not for a man of 61 to live a lot longer. I'm sorry Sydney did not have the experience of seeing his grandfather in advanced age from his own perspective as an adult. From what friends and relatives tell me, hot-tempered men often cool down in later years and become very different from the way they remembered their fathers, grandfathers, uncles, etc., as children.
To give an extreme example, the US has a lot of prisoners in advanced ages, often in ill health, who are nothing like the violent or malevolent criminals they were thirty or forty years ago.
But then again, maybe that kind of anger kills people early.
I really enjoyed this! It makes me want to go back into my own memories and the recollections my dad had about my grandparents.
This essay was beautiful. Reminded me of my relationship with my own (maternal) grandfather. He was my mother's stepfather and within the past year or so discovered that my mom hated him. I remember my sister and riding with him in his big blue truck. We went through a hilly intersection at a stoplight one day and it felt like were flying. We threw our hands up like we were on a rollercoaster and laughed our heads off, wanting him to do it again.
A fabulous piece, a lovely Monday morning gift, thank you!
Glad you enjoyed it, Gary.
Beautiful. You have captured, for me, some of that elusive emotion. Thank you!
Lovely. Our ancestors in within us.
live within us* (everyone needs an editor) :)
😂