babinscreams

Two years today. The crisp reality of that morning remains vivid. Dad, I can go for a day now without thinking about you. What never fades however is the sense of growth, experience, life-force that somehow entered my being that morning. I was holding your hand as you died. I felt you go. It's as though the last movement you made, a nervous spasm of your entire body, was in fact a transfer of spirit from your being to mine . You live on in me. It's good to have you so close. I still long to share with you my "accomplishments" only because they would impress the shit out of you. And like the lowliest puppy, I lived for your acknowledgement and praise.

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...

The past six weeks have been some of the most intensive in my life. With an early July date for putting the house on the market looming, work began with paint applied to every surface, inside and out. The results were so inspiring, that new carpet, tile, refinished wood floors, and landscaping became mandatory. New fixtures, knobs and hinges throughout, and the house became something very exciting and creative. I moved in, working with tilers, painters and handymen to fix and improve, all the while thinking about how much Mom wanted to do the very things I was doing, but didn't. What has emerged is a cleaner, pared down, brighter, less confused, more contemporary home than the one my parents lived in. My hands are knicked, pierced, worn, stained and arthritic. The decorative gaps in my wedding band are clogged with spackle. I've destroyed three pair of Levis and two pair of tennis shoes with paint, mud and bleach. A few days ago I was planting roses in the back yard. It was wel...

After Dad died, I phoned Dr. Whitaker's Corporate Headquarters where a nice lady offered her condolences when I asked her to stop the never-ending deluge of literature and magazines and vitamin ads and seminar invitations emanating from the good Doctor. The cards and letters kept coming, though the magazine stopped after the subscription ran out, but they were nice enough to offer my father several opportunities to renew. When I called the second time, I got another nice lady who offered her condolences; I think I was a little hot under the collar. Now today, I get this nice card in the mail, addressed to my father. Wow, Doctor Whitaker really does care! Had I known....Damn, I'm so embarrassed. I imagine the cremation rules out any chance of a "full" recovery.

My mother was all about pink. From the dress and shoes she wore on her wedding day to the plastic, kitsch knick-knacks that populated her life to the end. The pink plastic mirror that I've been using for a candle holder made a pass at the shoes last night. I had to photograph it.

I'd forgotten how breath taking the beauty of a July evening looking west from our backyard could be. The sun is at it's most northern drop point on the horizon. In the other seasons, it is usually obscured by the hill long before it sets. This vantage point was visited often by me and my friends. I built a brick barbecue pit in honor of the spot. Our backyard was a sanctuary where Spring put on a grand display and came to represent for me the essence of existence. Rebirth. Life erupting in color - a theme that played out in abstract paintings I made. The barbecue oven was rarely used. The shoddy workmanship became an embarrassment over time, still it remained an icon to younger days when pausing before a staggering sunset, I "sucked the marrow of life" oblivious (thank God) to death and finality. Tomorrow I will knock down the brick box, put sod in it's place, and say "goodbye" again to another symbol of times passed.

Yesterday I took apart the bench and shelves that comprised our darkroom. Following the dictates of painters, real estate agents, and common sense, the space in which you and I once shared so much forever changed. What a fabulous laboratory our darkroom was - a goddamn closet in what should have been a bedroom for the sibling I never had (I'm not complaining). The stains of chemical splash marks are still there. The light-tight shade you devised isn't there; when did you take that down? Speak up! So, there I am yesterday, pulling out the structure that held the enlarger and trays of chemicals (By the way, the enlarger and accessories went to Manual Arts High School in South Central Los Angeles. The photography teacher came out and got a bunch of stuff. He showed me the work of one student, an autobiography in captioned, black and white photos that tore my heart out.). I was struck by the craftsmanship of your construction. You actually used oak plywood for the bench; your faste...

One day soon, I will extract and play...hee, hee, hee.

We lived in Gardena, CA in the early 1960's. Next door to us was a family with a dog that barked quite a bit. My father complained without success. He was extremely noise sensitive and only got worse with age. The barking dog phase coincided with the purchase of a toy over which Dad I shared a lot of common ground - a reel to reel tape recorder. It not only became a tool for Dad's audio diaries and communicating with people around the world, but also served to bring out the 12 year old in him. After repeated attempts to get the neighbors to subdue their dog, Dad placed a microphone outside and recorded a few seconds of the barking. He cut the segment of tape out and joined the ends creating a loop of incessant barking. Giggling with delight, we put a speaker outside, next to the fence and played the loop. That's the last I remember. I don't know if it worked, got a response, anything. Just the pure joy of such a technologically creative prank was so thrilling the rest b...

Today I finally made the decision to sell the house. The material thing will be good to let go of. The past will evaporate in a big way as another family takes over the space we once occupied. And speaking of space. The last couple of weeks I've moved the computer and tape recorder(s) into the room and the very space Dad occupied at the end. There, I have been listening and digitizing some of the audio recordings he made ranging over nearly 50 years. The most moving were a monologue recounting his layoff in 1970 and another on a weekend encounter group he attended. The most painful was listening to him patronize a woman who was a friend about her racism in 1963. Dad recorded hundreds of hours of monologue. It was amazing how long he could talk without needing anyone to prompt him, critique or question him. He was for most of his adult life a man who pushed himself to question and learn. My respect for him in that regard continues to grow as I hear him on these tapes, so alive and ...

Fascinating changes keep coming. My directing has taken off via the world of political commercials. I traveled to Hawaii and over the course of four days filmed two spots. There appear to be several more coming in the next few weeks. The day before leaving, I had lunch with the head of the cinematography division of USC cinema. It looks like I'll be teaching a course in the fall there. The week before that, I was asked to become the editor of The Society of Camera Operators Magazine. I accepted. I don't know the first thing about editing a magazine, but ignorance will probably serve me well, and I have a few ideas that people seem intimidated by, so I guess I'm on the right track. And lastly, I've been offered a job operating a "virtual" camera on an animated film called "Monster House". This mostly computer created film started with actors on a stage wearing dots all over their bodies which emitted light. The light information was fed into the compu...