Category — Practicing Imperfection

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!

Sometime after law school, a few years after law school in fact, I answered the door to a newspaper vendor.  He wanted to sign me up for a subscription that had lapsed.  I looked at him and said simply, “I don’t read.”  He gave me a pitting look, thanked me for my time, and walked away.  It wasn’t until after I closed the door that I realized what I’d said.

The truth is, sometime during law school, I stopped reading for pleasure.  I think it happened somewhere between picking up my first syllabus and reading 500 pages for my first class.  Yeah, that’s probably where it happened.  I guess when I was required to read hundreds or thousands of pages each week, the desire to read anything else drained from my body.

It’s not that I was an avid reader before law school, but I enjoyed reading.  I enjoyed the idea of reading.  But, since I entered law school (10 years ago!!!!!!!!!! oh shit, I just had a little meltdown), the thought of reading is intertwined with late nights, failing eyesight, hours of outlining, and memorization. And, although I enjoy outlining and memorization more than the average duck, it’s not something I want to do at night before I go to bed.

Recently, I’ve mentioned this phenomenon to friends from law school.  It seems I’m not alone.  Maybe we should start a support group for lawyers who can no longer read for pleasure.  We’re a sad bunch.  At least I enjoyed law school.  I feel sorry for all my classmates who suffered through 3 years of torture, only to find that they are now deprived of the pleasure of reading.

There is one notable exception for me.  For whatever reason, both during law school and pretty much every day since then, I’ve been obsessed with Harry Potter.  I refused to read the books until after the third one had come out – the hype troubled the non-conformist in me.  Once I started, though, I couldn’t stop.  I can’t tell you why.  But it means that I’ve read each of the books probably 10 times.  My ex, Leigh, who is also a lawyer, has probably read the series 3+ times.  At least I’m not alone.

So here’s the Public Service Announcement:

If you are considering entering law school, you should know that law school will very possibly sap your desire to read for fun.  It  also has the potential to create a powerful obsession with a boy wizard.

Someday I hope to be able to pick up a book and make it more than 50 pages through.  Maybe I’ll try the Twilight series…

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!

One of the greatest parts of my job is working our charity golf tournaments.  Last week, our Eastern Oregon golf tournament teed off in Pendleton.  I was lucky enough to get to go.

The best part of the tournament is the large number of prizes that are raffled off.  A major big-box company donates a lot of the scratch/dent and damaged box items that come through its Eastern Oregon Distribution Center.  Score!

So, I bought $20 worth of tickets and held my breath.

I really wanted a digital camera – you know, for my trip – and I almost got it!  I was drawing the tickets, and had two in my hand.  After I handed one to the woman assigning prizes, I looked down and realized I’d chosen one ticket for the camera (not mine), and had another one in my hand for the next prize (mine!).  Not amusing.  But, when I walked over to see what I’d won, I was super excited to see a huge-ass, cast-iron fire pit!  Awesome!

I grabbed it and hauled it to my car.

I had big plans to put this thing together and roast marshmallows that night.  I’ve largely stopped eating refined sugar, but a perfectly toasted marshmallow is a special weakness from childhood.  I stopped at the store and bought the stuff for not only mallows, but for smores.

By the time I’d driven back from Pendleton and unpacked, it was too late to set up the pit, and I was freaking out, because I knew I’d be out of town for a couple of days (at a fabulous lesbian wedding).  I might have been a little desperate.  I found some bamboo skewers in the drawer and did the only thing I could – turned on the glass-top stove burner.

You know you can make a pretty good mallow on the stove?

Well, you can.  And I did.  4 of them.  2 as smores.

After I flew around the ceiling a couple of times, I had a deep and meaningful sugar crash.

***

It was a couple of days until I was back at the house, where the fire pit had been waiting patiently.  We’re in the middle of a nasty global heatwave (perhaps you’ve heard), and it was nearly 100 degrees that day.  I carefully considered the heat, and my desire to play with the fire pit.  The fire pit won.  While I was proudly dragging it into the back yard, my neighbor came over to see what I was doing.  They’ve got two kids, one of whom is less than a year old.  When I told her I was putting together the fire pit so that we could have smores later that night, she dropped her voice to a whisper and said “I’m in.  Let me know when.”  I assured her that I would and set myself to the task of assembling my prize.

Once I finished I hid in the relative cool of the house until I could reasonably justify lighting a fire.

At 8PM, when it finally cooled to 80 degrees, I ventured out with matches and tampon in hand.  (We’d learned earlier in the month from the industrious lesbians at a friend’s barbecue, that tampons are incredibly efficient fire starters.  Lightweight and compact, they’re an essential part of an emergency kit – for more than one reason.)

After about a half hour of working it out, I had a respectable blaze started.  When I knocked on the neighbor’s door, they were waiting, wine bottle in one hand, and baby monitor in the other.

Now, our backyard is pretty much a dry weed field with a dug up yucca, a tarp, and a couple of dog poop land-mines thrown in for charm.  But, with a fire pit, we’ve got the most amazing sanctuary around.  The four of us sat on the ground for well over an hour, eating smores, and basking in the glory of the fire pit.  It was seriously dark when we finally tore ourselves away from staring into the glowing coals, and poking at them with the new poker that came in the box.   We sat and stalled, not wanting to end a great evening, wanting to soak up the last ounces of magic that the fire pit had offered.

It’s amazing the things that are inside of each of us that draw us together.  I forget sometimes how the simplest things can connect souls, igniting something innate, evoking community, and transporting us.  The simple lighting and sharing of fire is one of those things, I think.  As magical and powerful now as it was when I was a Girl Scout, or a camp leader.  I wonder what else I’ve forgotten – and when I’ll be reminded.

I’m totally glad I didn’t win the camera.

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.