babinscreams

I just saw the movie by Clint Eastwood about the men who fought on Iwo Jima in WW2 and the story behind the iconographic photo of the flag raising atop Mt. Suribachi. It's a powerful movie that pulls back the curtain on the realities of war and it's toll on the young people who die or who return with deamons that never go away. It holds up to the light the propaganda campaigns that are waged in all wars to maintain the moral and financial support of the citizenry. And like Saving Pvt. Ryan, it portrays the world of my generation's parents, their quiet sacrafice, naiveness, and scars. In the final scene, the main character, now an elderly guy on his hospital death bed apologizes to his son for not having been a better dad. The son responds, "you were the best a son could have ever wanted". All the details of this scene right down to the pattern on the hospital smock reminded me of the the last few days with Dad. The way he faded in and out of consciousness. The way...

My daughter Kathryn left the nest today. Suitcase and cell phone in hand, she boarded an airplane with her mother to begin attending school in San Francisco. Kathryn is an extraordinary young woman in her resilience, her compassion, and ability to maneuver the hurdles of being a 21 year old on planet earth. I love watching her at this age as she increasingly stands on her own to embrace and confront the world. Her passions, for that matter anyone’s passions, are life-giving. She has a moral center that is solid. She will be a giver. At precisely the same age Kate is now, I too left the nest to live and school in the Bay Area. With my 1965 VW Beetle packed to the gills I waved goodbye to my parents who stood waving from the porch on Hawkhurst Drive. My father cried. His parting gift was a six pack of 16oz. Colt 45’s, which I proceeded to drink entirely on the drive north. He told me after that he was afraid he’d never see me again, which I apparently was intent on by consuming the malt ...

Click the title or the link at the bottom to see the first posting on this blog. It will give you context for what follows. Click on these two pages; they will expand into a larger window and be easier to read. http://www.whoknoze.blogspot.com/2005_03_06_whoknoze_archive.html

The following is from Dad's journal (see my postscript following): HARRY NILSSON 1941-1994 About 20 years ago my son, Paul, gave me a sound tape he had recorded off radio of a singer named Harry Nilsson, who I had never heard of. On it young Nilsson very charmingly sang many old favorites—among them "For Me and My Gal" and "As Time Goes By"—with an unusually sweet, mellow orchestra backing him up. I loved that re-cording. One evening Paul and I generously imbibed in scotch and soda while we played that beautiful Nilsson recording again and again and sang along with it. Just last week I rediscovered that Nilsson cassette and began playing it repeatedly while using my computer. More than once, while listening and remembering that sen-timental evening with Paul, I shed a few tears. I frequently sang along, and for one of my fa¬vorite tunes I copied the lyrics into my computer. Then on Saturday morning, 15 January, the tape suddenly broke and rewound in...

Waupaca, Wisconsin June 21, 2006 On the edge of this town, population 5000, at the south end of Main Street is South Park. The park wraps itself around the shores of Shadow Lake. On the north shore is a sandy beach where generations have come to recreate. Over the course of several summers spanning my dad’s adolescence, he swam there. It must have been intoxicating after the winter seasons of bitter cold and ice. On Wednesday night, when Elliot and I arrived at the park at sunset, the air was gentle, warm, moist. Next to the parking lot, a group of guys played volleyball and eyed us with suspicion; we were obviously out-of-towners. We walked the short distance from the parking lot to the beach and plonked down on a park bench. At 8PM the lifeguard closed shop and the kids frolicking in the shallows went home. Elliot and I pulled off our shoes and unpacked Dad. A guy with a metal detector and headphones appeared, “Anybody else with a metal detector been here?” Not that we were aware of....

Elliot and I arrived in Waupaca last night around 9pm. In the last few minutes of the solstice sunlight we walked Main Street and drove to the lake where we will leave Dad. I tried to give as much detail as I could about the places we observed, but my lack of knowledge was frustrating. On this trip, I have to constantly let go, to let Elliot have his experience – just as I had mine when I came here with Dad. But of course, detail is precious now that the source of the information is gone; I want to be the Bob Babin tour guide, but lack the “experience”. So, I rely on the wealth of record both Dad and I created. There is his book, “My Boyhood in Wisconsin” and the audio notes he put down before writing it. I’m relying on video I shot on a trip he and I took here in 1996. Now on my lap top, this two hours of video in which I sat him down in front of many of the sites here in Waupaca is a Rosetta Stone. After watching again last night, I realized the place I have in mind to leave him is...

Tomorrow, Elliot and I depart for Waupaca Wisconsin, my dad’s home from infancy until the age of 16. Throughout his life, over and over, Bob returned to Waupaca. As much as he hated cold weather and the parochial disadvantages of life in Waupaca, when he got to talking about it, an air of reverence and poetry emerged from stories of his youth. He traveled there many times over the years; he would bring his wife and son to meet the women who raised him: his Grandmother Mini, his aunt Esther, his aunt Alta, and his cousin Bernice. He attended many high school reunions. He told me often of his early years on the farm: doing math problems on a black board by gas light; life without indoor plumbing; the rare visits from his mother, never knowing, always hoping that one day she’d take him back. It’s easy to romanticize his struggle early in life, but the elements can’t be denied. When he was an infant, Bob’s mother left him in the care of his grandmother. The culture of these northern Europe...

Dad, A year has passed. It was a blink of an eye; an arduous and painful journey; a powerful, awakening stretch. There were times when I felt myself inching toward the cliff of dreadful feeling, and only by willfully walking there did it dissipate. And of course, then I’d be shanghaied by an image, a song, a film by one of my students. One of those brinks of despair was the gnawing message, “I let you die.” I did. And I know it was right, because I have your words on paper that describe the life not worth living. You had not lived that life for many months. You were diaper-clad, catheterized, pissing blood, and unable to move your legs at all. Remember the night the septic infection hit you like a train, the beginning of the end? That afternoon I put on “Winged Migration” the documentary about the birds flying, and your expression and the way you said, “that’s beautiful” spoke volumes. I think the freedom of those birds flying over land was beckoning. At least I hope that’s what it was...

There is amazing peace driving the open roads.

Dear Dad, Happy New Year. I thought about you a lot today. It will soon be a year since you left your mortal coil and joined the great main-frame in the sky. Today was the first time since 1955 that the Rose Parade was held in driving rain. All I could think about was how year after year you would remark about the beautiful weather on January 1 and the "poor bastards" back east who were surely green with envy watching the telecast from Pasadena. Well, your passing has brought with it change, amazing change. I'm stronger than ever, feel more capable and self-assured than ever. My career, my industry is changing, going through labor strife and technological upheaval. But thanks to the pad your inheritance provides, I can afford to be philosophical about it and keep my eye on the ball, which really just entails learning new technology, staying ahead of the curve by staying smarter than the twit who hires me. This year I have grieved for you far beyond anything I imagined. I...