the DIA has amazing hummus

At the beginning of this month, I had the dubious opportunity to go to the Detroit Institute of Art. It's a wonderful museum: grandiose architecture, superb collection, cheap, and it's executive director is well-known for his cute bowties. The DIA also happens to be in one of my favorite cities: Detroit, Michigan. Here the smirks start-- 'why would you like Detroit? It's a shit hole.' Well, that's only what people say when they haven't been there.

Or I suppose you could rightfully say that if you were from there. You gain shit-talk rights for being from a place. Example: I grew up in the South, and love to complain about the South's eccentricities; but if an outsider talks smack I talk back. Detroit does have a gang problem, and a drug problem, and a poverty problem and some significantly storied historical corruption. But that ethos is only representative of the city's reputation. It's doesn't cover the whole picture and, more to the point, that's not how it used to be.

Which brings me one step closer to what the actual point of this story is: my entire family is from Detroit. Something like three generations back, at least. I'm the only one born in the 20th Century in my family who wasn't born in Detroit. So I have a lot of pride. I always loved visiting Detroit, and Michigan is by far one of my favorite states. It's beautiful there, and I'm not sure I've ever been treated more nicely by people than I have by Michiganians. I have cozy childhood memories of visiting family and going on vacation there. The weather always seemed more pleasant than in Tennessee. The grass was literally greener. The trees bigger and leafier. The streets all had sidewalks and we were a short walk from the best playground I ever saw. And my grandparents had a basement with a pool table and a fridge full of sodas.

This is why I call my chance to go to the DIA this month "dubious". Because I'm really not sure how I feel about it. I was in Detroit to go to my grandfather's funeral. Off the top of my head, I don't honestly know how old he was. About 85. We weren't close. I grew up in Tennessee and rarely saw my extended family. Also, several years ago my grandfather became severely afflicted with Alzheimer's and the dull memories of me seemed to be some of the first to fade.

Nonetheless, one of the three photographs he kept in his room at the assisted living center where he finally passed was of me and my cousin as young girls. He picked out the photo himself, my mom and aunt said. He didn't know who we were. In any case I really doubt it. But we were the only faces besides his dead wife and a very old photo of his father, my mom's "grandpa Docky", diminutive of "Paledowski" which is what he changed his named to (from "Paledockus") when he immigrated from Lithuania.

I wasn't close to my grandpa, but I always had a great deal of respect for him. He grew up in the Great Depression to his immigrant parents, enlisted in the Navy during World War II, married his beautiful wife back in Detroit and raised three kids from a quaint brick house on the west side of the city while he worked as an accountant for the Ford Motor Company. As far as I knew, he was very dedicated to a handful of important things: the Catholic church, the nuclear family, the VFW, Ford cars and Detroit sports teams. I believe he was flawed, but was still a paragon of mid-century American ideals. Union man. Homeowner. Retired at 55. Good to his neighbors and to his church. Worked hard to ensure the welfare of his family.

Then things began to fall apart. Some minor forgetfulness and dementia after his wife died. The occasional fall. Not recognizing voices on the phone or mixing up names. He became easily confused and was once swindled out of money after a minor car accident. So he went to live with my aunt. But there was no going back from where he'd been.

I would see him sometimes in this span of time. It was admirable how he had adapted cope with not knowing what was going on. He never recognized my face, but would ask neutral questions: "How are you?", "Live around here?", or "What do you do?" I can only imagine how weird it would be to constantly see people who knew your name and said 'hi' but who you did not know. For that, I respect him further. He tried to keep it together when things were unraveling.

But of course, things got worse. His condition deteriorated to the point that only professionals could take proper care of him. Confusion disintegrated into irritability which, combined with the psychotropic drugs they had him on, could lead to outbursts of hateful violence. He barely ate and eventually couldn't walk anymore. I could see all parts of my family torn apart by desperation and fear over his condition. There was no one it didn't touch and they frequently took their anger out on each other.

For years, there was screaming at the same time that there was a heavy interdependence. People were afraid, angry, sad; and there was nothing they could do but helplessly watch it get worse. Towards the end, he didn't recognize anybody. There were occasional violent fits of rage. Sometimes he had to be restrained to his bed. He was barely even physically recognizable at the end. Literally like a husk-- in appearance, emotion, spirit, character. It was tragic to hear about his suffering and I'll admit I was relieved to hear about his passing.

I believe it represented turning a page in my family's history. Of course, everything that comes in the following pages is built on everything that preceded it. My whole family was touched by his long, proud life; and we were collectively terrorized by his disease. There is a lot of relief that it's over, fear about who could be next, residual resentment in wondering about how things might have been different.

I can draw two similar arcs that are my grandfather's life and the life cycle of the city he spent his life in. Raised through hard work and determination on the backs of immigrants who became proud Americans; a dutiful volunteer in the war effort; a paradigm of a million American dreams in small brick homes with garages and yards where the kids can walk to school; finally beset by a tragedy that no one knew how to avoid and couldn't anticipate the extent of; ultimately characterized by a slow descent and no viable salvation.

But, in the time I spent in Detroit that week, I was reminded of the importance of using the lessons and good examples from the past to move forward into a better future. My grandfather wasn't the man ravaged by Alzheimer's who died last month. He was a giant of twentieth century American culture. And part of that lives on in the actions of his family the same way that much of the original creativity, ingenuity and hard-work of Detroit continues a generation after the city's collapse. There's a lot of closure in realizing that things can never be like they once were. But it's also inspiring to think that what used to be can still influence the future for the better.

I contemplated all of this while I was in the DIA one day. For the record, their food court really is pretty good. Detroit is a husk of its former self, but it has the ability to grow back up into something new. The sense of personal dedication that people like my grandfather had is what makes a community, any community. Just like the character of all the past relatives is what makes a family. Like my family, for example. Which, like I said, is flawed; but I am nonetheless proud of.

More foliage

I thought the fall leaves in Oregon where beautiful. Then I went to Michigan.
Beautiful....

Fall foliage

The brisk fall weather is starting to fade away into the damp coldness characteristic of an Oregon winter. While that's happening, I can comfort myself with pictures I took of the beautiful fall foliage around Rosi:This was in downtown Roseburg.
This was in the parking lot of the Fred Meyer.
And this is the view from the front porch of my apartment. Gorgeous fall colors abounded everywhere this year. Which is quite a departure from last year when I could of sworn the entire town was playing a joke on me. They kept insisting that Oregon was rainy. Whereas I didn't see a drop of rain for at least the first six months I lived in Oregon. As a result, the leaves on the few deciduous trees didn't change color. They just died and fell off. This year seems to be back on track however, as it rains a little bit everyday and is perma-cloudy. That's more like it, I say. After all, it's what I signed up for.

End of October

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. In fact, any candy-based holiday is alright with me. But Halloween is at least a little bit more than delicious seasonal candy. I love carving pumpkins, I love the beautiful fall colors, I love the seasonal beers and I love costume parties.
I ended up buying a super-unripe pumpkin because I liked the green stripes on the outside. Then it was next to impossible to carve.

But it ended up okay since I don't really mind having a pumpkin that looks like a little kid with poor motor skills carved it. In fact, I think it adds some charm.
It was a happy pumpkin family. And the standard Oregon moldy rot didn't even set in until after the big day. Bring on the next holiday! Hooray for fall.

Goodbye, Kitty Kat

My roommate Kat moved out yesterday. There were things I loved about living with her and things I hated (ahem, half-assed attempt at composting). Mostly it was love, though. But she moved on to go live at an eco-village (or "commune" if you will). Also, Sarah will soon be taking her cat to her new home. So I'm going to go from having horses, dogs, cats, roommates and house guests to having a big empty apartment to myself real fast. All alone with my to-do list.

I wonder how long till my loneliness and paranoia gets the best of me and I pull the first roommate I can off craigslist. Seriously, let's take bets. I bet I make it until at least January. Honestly, I think I'll be so busy that it won't really hit me fully until after the holidays. But we'll see.

The Age of Hitting 'Snooze'

Even after a full eight or so hours sleep, it can be difficult to drag myself out of bed now that the mornings are getting colder ('though not yet cold enough to warrant turning on the furnace). It's much nicer just to cuddle up under all my blankets and stay warm and away from work for a while.

On days that I'm out of my office, I typically work over ten hours a day. Days that I'm in my office are filled with annoying ambient noise, fluorescent glare, a computer screen a foot from my face, the constant temptation to screw around on the Internet, and a coworker who whistles all the time. Nonstop. No matter what. Always with his office door open. What is the point? Who whistles that much?

The incoming fall weather also makes me want to watch football, carve pumpkins, drink delicious seasonal beers and bust out my extensive jacket collection. Maybe it will actually get cold in Oregon this winter.

It's also hard to focus on work because grad school is competing for my attention. Competition is stiff in a recession, and I want to make sure I'm an attractive candidate. That means a lot of care needs to go into everything I submit.

However, I was watching Dazed and Confused the other night and kind of starting thinking that maybe I don't want to get all serious with my life. Where would I be more satisfied? Screwing around bouncing from one low-wage job to another in a different state half the time? Or in a pressure cooker grad school with little wiener kids who couldn't shotgun a beer or name a Talking Heads record to save their life? Where would I be happier?

But you know, I could always go to grad school and find all the fun in it I can. Or, I could go and drop out. Or, if it's no fun at all, it's only two years and it'll be over soon. If I can survive two years in Roseburg, Oregon, I can survive two years anywhere.

Is this the death of fun? Is this the assumption of the grave mantel of age and responsibility? Will my nightmare visions of all my friends getting married, moving to the suburbs and sacrificing their youthful ideals come to fruition? Of course. Most definitely.

Who can say....

From the Dollar Tree: treasure trove of oddities:
The following were all taken inside the same building in Grants Pass, Oregon. I'll let you guess what's going on there:
Aminals.
Harley Bear.
Just one of the four walls in the creepy bathroom.
America!
Santa gorilla!