Category — Family

My grandfather celebrated his 89th birthday last weekend.  89.  Wow.

My grandfather is many things.  He is a Pear Harbor Survivor and a carpenter.  He loves trains.  He makes train whistles and turtle-stools, and all manner of fabulous things.   He is a tinkerer and creator of the highest order.   He is Greek and French, though the Greek is the part we really talk about.  He is even a past master of the Masons.  Most of all, he is a story-teller.

He has a story for EVERYTHING.  Sometimes he has two or three stories.  (For example, there are 2 stories that are told every time we eat asparagus. )  Once in a great while, he comes up with a new one that my sister and I haven’t heard – probably becaue we’re now old enough to hear the more racey ones.  Those  are always excellent.

My favorites, and I think his, are folk stories he must have heard growing up, of a man called Nostradin Hodja.

As an adult I learned that “Hodja” means “Mullah,” but to me, it was his last name.  The stories are a kind of mix of fable and dirty limerick, usually showing Nostradin as a fool.  I always saw him as a kind of uncle, and the stories of my grandfather’s making.  Maybe 15 years ago, my grandfather made recordings of the recited stories in his own voice.  They are gems.  I remember spending hours with him on his computer making a drawing of Nostradin in Microsoft Paint for the cassette jacket cover.

So, in honor of my grandfather, here is one of my favorite Nostradin stories.  This is one of two stories that is told in my family whenever someone spills food on themselves.

‘There was a great feast happening in the village where Nostradin Hodja lived.  Everyone in the village was preparing the town square.  There would be very important  dignitaries at the feast, and Nostradin was excited to get to meet them.

When the time came for him to go to the feast, he got dressed and entered the town square.  Everyone from the village was there.  There were beautiful high tables set on a stage above the villagers, where the dignitaries were seated.  As he approached the high tables, Nostradin was stopped by attendants and told that he could sit in the lower tables with the other villagers.

Well, this did not suit Nostradin at all.  He gazed at the dignitaries dressed in their fine silk robes and fancy turbins.  He looked down at his rough wool tunic and felt his ordinary fez.  “I know!” cried Nostradin, and he rushed from the square.

When he arrived home, he found his finest silk robes and grandest turbin.  He even put on his shoes that turned up at the toes, and set off toward the square once again.

This time, when he approached the high tables, he was greeted by the attendants who welcomed him to sit with the dignitaries.

He enjoyed a lovely feast of roast lamb, rosemary potatoes, glittering fruits and the finest wines – all in the company of the dignitaries.

At the end of the feast, Nostradin took some food from his plate and began rubbing it on his robes, in his turbin, and even across his shoes that turned up at the toes.  “Nostradin!  What are you doing?!” cried one of the attendants.  “Well,” said Nostradin, “it is these clothes that got me my seat at the feast, and they should enjoy the feast as much as I!”‘

Ask me some time and I’ll tell you the other story for when you spill food on yourself.

Thanks Grandpa!  Happy Birthday!

Since my return from Italy, I’ve made a good faith effort to learn some of the language. I bought an old Berlitz book, a verb guide, and some flashcards. The most helpful part of my study, however has been instant messaging with my friends from Italy who force me to write a little in Italian each time. I blunder along with a mix of college Spanish and on-line translation that results in a lot of “???” on the other end. Eventually I ask them how to say something, and then I stare furiously at the screen, willing my brain to remember.

It’s funny to realize what’s important in my speech. While I’ve picked up a little of the grammar and word useage, the bulk of what I’ve lerarned has been exclammations. I’m guessing it’s because I use words like “awesome” and “rad” far more than the average bear. Along with “which letters don’t you use in Italian?” I’m often asking for the appropriate exclamation.

I’ll be sharing these as featured vocab words, but for now, they’ve given me insight into much more.

My grandmother’s family is Italian. She didn’t come from Italy, but she grew up with folks who spoke some of the language. To us she’s “Nana” or “The Nun.” She’s great. From her I’ve learned wonderful things like the importance of embracing life, and how Italians are better than Greeks. I’ve also learned Italian slang – I just didn’t know it.

As kids, my sister and I picked up words that the Nun used – some of them we thought were made up. She’d rub our arms and recite the equivalent of “this little piggy” complete with tickling. She’s tell us “sta siede e mangia” (sit down and eat) or tap her temple and say “che pazzo” whenever she thought my grandfather was being strange.

Of course, nobody in my immediate family spoke Italian, so what we heard and repeated was “statseat” and “kapots.”

But, a chat last week with an Italian friend blew open 30 years of funny phrases. In response to something I said, she responded “accidenti!” I didn’t recognize the word, so I quickly plugged it into my handy (and notoriously untrustworthy) online translator. “Accidents.” Clearly I was missing something. Apparently “accidenti” is used to communicate surprise. Along with “accidenti,” I learned “sticazzi” which communicates a similar sentiment is a less G-rated way.

Typing words is great, but I wanted to make sure I had the pronunciation right so that I could exclaim appropriately (or inappropriately as the case may be). I took the opportunity to practice my new words while driving home from work. I’d said “accidenti” out loud about three times when it hit me. I could hear my nana saying “ah chidand” in exasperation. “Ah chidand” sounds remarkably like “Accidenti.” Of course! How fun.

I had a hearty laugh and called my mom to share. Only in the past week have I thought to take these phonetic phrases apart to understand what was really being said. The more I examine, the more I learn about my family. Aparently I’m not the only one with a proclivity for exclamations. I can hardly wait for the next discovery!

This weekend, my great friends Serene and Allison got married – well as married as two lesbians in Oregon can be.  They rented an island and had an amazing ceremony in the Columbia River Gorge, surrounded by family and several softball teams.

In order to have the ceremony where they wanted it, they recruited friends (softball teams) to help with setup and tear down.  I’ll tell you what, after witnessing the awesome efficiency that comes with a pack of lesbians, I pity any employer that discriminates based on sexual orientation.  Lesbians are one fierce group of logistical experts.

Aside from setting up the ceremony site and reception hall for 150, preparing the brides, and taking the pictures, the real awesomeness came when it was time for tear down.

As soon as the ceremony was over, while the families walked to the receiving line, the softball teams, noticing two of their own stacking chairs, went to work.  In the space of 10 minutes (maybe less) the entire ceremony site was clear.

Photo by Brandi George

Chairs were stacked and stored, flowers were hauled, and all were headed to the reception.

Photo by Brandi George

After hours of cupcakes and dancing, I turned to the table of softball players I was sitting with and said, “lesbians, we have a task.”  Everyone sat up to listen.  “We need to get everyone out for the garter toss, find a ride for Allison and Serene, and clean up the building.”  The 8 women at the table jumped up, put their hands for a quick cheer (“LESBOS!”) and set off to git ‘er done.

In no more than 20 minutes, the garter toss had taken place, the brides had a ride to the hotel, and the reception hall was cleared out and cleaned up – except for the ever-dancing pack of ladies.

Photo by Brandi George

Serene and Allison had a beautiful ceremony.  The love they share is imminently apparent, and deeply touching.  What’s more, the love that their friends and family have for them is astounding.

In Italy, the best phrase that I learned had to do with gelato.  When ordering gelato, you could pick your flavors, or you could ask “che sposano bene” or “what marries well” and let the woman behind the counter hook you up.  The phrase kept going through my mind on Saturday.  It’s a shame they don’t let us marry, because lesbians marry well.

Allison e Serene sposano bene.

You know those reflective vests that road workers and inmates wear?  The orange or green ones?  Italians carry those in their cars like Americans carry tire gages, or toolkits.  Our first day in Italy, we found out why…

My parents had rented a car – a nice alfa romeo sedan.  It had a good amount of trunk space for our luggage, a sleek body style, and a shitty turning radius.

We were lost almost immediately after we picked up the rental car, turning the wrong way on the highway leading away from the airport.  After about an hour of driving, stopping, asking directions, figuring out where we were, where we were going, and driving again, we were back at the airport going the right direction – toward Pisa, toward Lucca and toward Pieve Fosciana.  All we needed to do was get onto the Italian Autobahn, the Autostrada.

Signage in Italy isn’t always that great – especially if you don’t know what the little sign symbols mean.  Somehow, we ended up heading the wrong way – again – this time onto the Autostrada.  We realized this as we were on the on-ramp to the east-bound lanes.  Fortunately, there were no cars anywhere near us, and the off-ramp was right next to us.  We decided to pull a u-turn.  Yes, a u-turn on the on/off-ramp to the Autostrada.  This seemed like a good idea at the time.  Then again, we’d been traveling for about 20 hours at that point, and were pretty desperate not to have to backtrack again.

This is when we discovered several things in quick succession.

1.  The alfa romeo has a shitty turning radius.

2.  It is not that easy to put an alfa romeo into reverse.

3.  Italian motorists are INCREDIBLY patient.

As the car came to a stop about 6 inches from the guard rail, my dad tried to put the car into reverse.  After about 30 seconds of increasingly frantic attempts to force the shifter into reverse, it became clear that there was some kind of release switch.  It also became clear that we weren’t going to figure it out on the on-ramp.

At this point, our car was perpendicular to the ramps, blocking both directions.  Cars on both sides of us were beginning to pile up.  I looked at my mom and aunt in the back of the car who were packed in with our luggage, turned to my dad and said “I guess I’m pushing!”

When I got out, the car was resting on the guard rail.  I put my hands on the hood, my feet on the rail, and pushed.  it must have been an awesome sight to see me suspended between the two like a cartoon figure.  I can’t imagine why my family didn’t have the camera out.  The only way it could have been better is if I’d had the reflective vest on.  After a couple fits of pushing and driving forward, pushing and driving forward (thanks to the shitty turning radius), I was able to waive to the other motorists who were patiently watching us like we were a mildly amusing tv program, jump in the car, and we were on our way.

What was amazing to us was that the entire time, nobody honked.  Nobody flipped us the bird, nobody hollered out the window.  We were on the frickin’ ramp to the Autostrada, blocking both directions.  People calmly queued up and waited with the expression of someone sitting at a rather long traffic light.  If we’d been in the US, I might have been shot, run down, or at least cursed loudly at.  In Italy, I was entertainment.

Before the trip, my dad and sister had done some work to learn the Italian language.  For some reason, my dad had happened across the word for “carbomb” and decided to teach it to all of us.  (Yes, I know it’s totally inapropriate.)  Although he didn’t get it quite right (it’s really” autobomba” I found out later), we still used “autobombo” pretty much constantly in the lead-up to the trip.  We even started calling my mom “automombo,” and my sister convinced her coworker that the Autostrada was really called the “Autobombo.”   But, after our first day in Italy, for the rest of the trip, and beyond, our awesome u-turn on the Autostrada was referred to as the “autobombo.”  I really wish I’d worn the vest.

I love Harry Potter.  A lot.

At first, I refused to read the books, because of all the main-stream hype.  That is until one Christmas break when I was home in Idaho.  I picked up the first book, and didn’t stop reading for the entire trip – until I had finished the first 3 books.

Since then, I’ve been a complete Harry Potter maniac.  It might border on creepy.  I’m not totally sure at this point.

I haven’t dressed as Harry in a couple of years, but I did.  Every year.  In law school.  When I worked at the Oregon Court of Appeals.  I was a good Harry.

This week, with the opening of the 6th movie “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince,” I considered whether to dig my costume out of storage and wear it to the midnight opening, or to dress as a muggle and wait until Friday afternoon and pay the matinee price.

My recent ex-girlfriend, Leigh,  and I decided to go Friday afternoon, sans costume, though I may have frightened a child dressed as Hermione when I ran up to her to ask whether she liked the movie.  Usually, kids are much more fun to talk with about Harry Potter.  Usually…

Saturday night, though, at a summer BBQ, I was reminded of one of the great things about my ex.  During a story I was telling about answering the door for Jehovah’s Witnesses while reading a freshly-released Harry Potter book, Leigh interrupted me.

“It was the 5th book.”

I had just stated that I was reading the 7th book at the time.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,”  she said simply.  “We’ve been together for two books.”

Excellent.  Not, we’ve been together for 4 years.  No, “we’ve been together for two books”.

Leigh has asked me before why I love her.  It can be hard to put into words why I love a person.  The why isn’t that important to me.  In that moment, however, I knew this is why.  There are certain people in  my life that share a language – a shorthand – for how the world works.  Measuring our relationship in terms of Harry Potter books was a powerful reminder for me of how important funny little things can be, and how wonderful it is to share that kind of shorthand with someone who isn’t afraid to sit next to you when you have a stuffed bird on your shoulder.

Those are the friends you’ll have forever.