Kirk and Eva, those two names roll off the tongue so naturally in tandem. Together they have started a business, honest in its intentions, sincere in its articulation, and just plain great. They are called Sycamore Street Press, and their work is fantastic. I was able to catch up with them, for the first time in years, during their visit to several craft fairs in San Francisco. I am happy that I did.
Although I could write plenty about what they are doing, I will let the video, or rather Eva, do the talking.
Dan rolled up to my parents’ house just like he would have ten years ago—turning recklessly into our driveway in his parents' mini-van blaring music. On the surface it would appear that nothing had changed since high school, but life has run its course with both of us. He enlisted in the Navy and went to Europe for 5 years. I became a missionary for my church and went to Japan for two years. He came home, wandered, and enrolled in school. I came home, finished school, married, and then divorced soon after. He sports a healthy beard now, and I still can’t grow facial hair to save my life. So, I guess some things don’t change. Dan is now writing a book—a memoir of his experiences, which have been rich and plentiful. He has written about seven chapters already. I am now trying to get people to patron a haphazard blog featuring the experiences of others. And, if you are reading this, I am experiencing at least some success.
There was a time when Dan and I thought we were invincible. We drove fast. We spoke loud. We ate a strict diet of trans fats and high fructose corn syrup. It was the 90’s—whatever that means. Like most teenaged boys we were reluctantly and awkwardly obsessed with girls, but that was about all that linked us to ‘normal’ guys our age. All of the other things that we did seemed to brand us more or less as misfits, albeit with a healthy social agenda. We played volleyball—not football, basketball, or baseball. We played in a band, and usually didn’t like the music that other kids listened to. We wore different kinds of clothing, and defensively made fun of others who wore the trends of the day. For this reason, I am glad that we had each other. We were brothers then, and despite distance of time and place, we still maintain that status.
One of my guilty pleasures in life is Disneyland. I had the fortune of visiting several times when I was a kid, often to accompany my grandmother who was a nationally renowned ceramics judge. The artifacts from those trips soon filled my bedroom in many different manifestations, examples including: a map of the park on my bedroom wall that was updated each year with new additions both bad (Mickey's Toontown) and good (Splash Mountain), a Peter Pan hat with my name stitched into it, and a plush animal of the winged furby-like creature from Captain EO. Thinking about it, it seems that Disneyland was the glue that is holding most of my childhood memories together. The trips I took there act as landmarks in my head as I navigate the timeline of my youth.
As childhood habits are hard to drop, it should come as no surprise that I still love Disneyland: a requirement in my spouse was that she would allow me to take her there for a honeymoon (which she did), I listen to recordings of Disneyland songs occasionally when I am working, and I have 2 trips planned there in the next 4 months. But I often wish I could go back to see my reaction after my first trip. I always feel that Disneyland must be too much for any kid to handle -- it is so unlike reality, so amazingly magical. When was it that I was sold on the experience? Did I understand right after my first trip or did it take me a few times through?
My niece Leah recently took her first trip to The Magic Kingdom at Disney World. This story gives me a glimpse of what it must be like to go to a Disney Park for the first time. There is a mix of excitement, fear, and just plain old being a kid.
A sense of humor is like a fingerprint. Similarities exist, but never two identical fingerprints or senses of humor. What makes us laugh and where does it come from? Is there a watershed moment when we know what makes us laugh? Is a sense of humor manipulated, or genuinely ours; i.e., as they evolve, do they do so honestly? Does that even make sense? Is there an objective standard that assesses humor like TBS tried so farcically to convince us? Well, truth be told, I have no idea, but it is interesting to think about. A sense of humor often defines an individual more than family relations, or regional identity (although they are often correlated). It is such a critical part of culture, and an essential component of interpersonal relationships—either to their creation and perpetuation, or to their complete destruction—that we can’t write it off as a joke. Was that funny? Last Friday the 13th, I had to make a trip down south for work. Breaking the monotony of the drive, my buddy Paul kindly expounded upon the genesis of his flavor of humor. Although we did not definitively answer any of the questions I pose, we did exchange some nice stories, eat a value meal at Carl’s Jr., and make it to LA without crashing. Not very funny.
Like finding something after years of misplacement, my grandparents' stories never have to be about heroics or some extraordinary event to be significant. Their mere existence qualifies their tremendous value. They are always entertaining. And, although I have heard a lot of those stories, they still keep me at the edge of my seat wanting more. My grandparents are my heroes.
My conversations with them always wander into engaging tangents painted with the colorful regalia of past memories. This video, which features my maternal grandmother, is no exception to that. Grandma’s stories bounce from family memories, WWII era social commentary, her courtship with my granddad, music, and beyond.
I love my grandma. Perhaps it is because she reminds me so much of my own mother. Perhaps it is because she is generally so motherly. Perhaps, it is because her stories are always told with the same raised eyebrows, cute giggle, and smiling eyes. There is a sense of home in every one of them. Or, perhaps, the thing that impresses me and makes me feel a deep sense of reverence for my grandma is her undying love for my granddad. They have been married for 65 years now. No small feat.
This past Sunday I was able to see her, my mom, and my granddad, on an extended trip I had to take for work. Unfortunately, the visit was at a hospital. Nonetheless, we had a great time. After all, what better venue to see my grandma’s love for my granddad at work? At one point, in my granddad’s room, the classic song, “No Two People (Have Ever Been so in Love),” sung by Danny Kaye and Jane Wyman from Hans Christian Andersen, is playing on the big band radio station that my granddad likes. Grandma stares affectionately at him, as if the song is part of their life soundtrack. I thought this scene a rather touching and appropriate portrait of what they have become together.
We all yearn for something from our past. For me, as well as many other people that I know, that something lurks in the quotidian memories of our childhood, and is usually quantified by an equally common object, place, or person. For my buddy Josh, that common object is one of the greatest postwar suburban children’s phenomena—action figures.
Talking about action figures may seem trite. It may seem that to hold on to something so make-believe trivializes the reality of our childhoods. But, to me, as I think it is to Josh, the make believe world of childhood is what is lasting and important, not the reality. Reality is for our parents, and photo albums. It was, after all, out of the ether of our imaginations that our dreams grew. The same dreams that buoy us today—at least, ideally. At any rate, I still appreciate the child-like imaginations that us aging people can access from time to time. Thanks to Sam (Josh’s son), this video maintains some authenticity in real time, and not just in nostalgic memory, of that imagination.
I grew up in a home without too many family traditions. At Christmas, we would eat a roast. At Thanksgiving, a turkey. On Easter, a leg of lamb. On Halloween, candy. No special games, no traditional song, no candle lighting. We're pretty boring. Occasionally, we engage in gratuitous laughter at the expense of someone else in the family. By that I mean, my brother and I are provoked into laughter by one or the other of our parents doing something that an individual qualified for AARP membership would do. But, that is not a tradition as much as it is a fact of life.
I guess all of our family traditions (as cliche as they are) really revolve around food, processed gelatin, and high fructose corn syrup (are the latter two items considered food?). Indeed, this phenomenon describes much of the cultural landscape of America. So it is no surprise that my Halloween experience this year, despite living 3,000 miles away from my parents, was again centered around another deleterious nutritional practice--making and eating caramel apples. Thank you Santos family.
What are your Halloween stories?
These are late additions, but here are a couple of memories from the annals of our collective experience.
This Halloween memory is based in Beijing, China, in the small community of River Garden Villas, where foreigners from all over the world live. One Halloween night in 11th grade, Samantha Dickens and I decided to pretend that she was a murderer and I was a victim. I would start to walk down the street, and suddenly begin to warily look behind me. Sam would begin following me, hunkering her shoulders down, quickening her pace, and leering at me with a threatening smile. I'd start walking faster, looking at her behind me with a panicked look. She would then start laughing and running after me. I would oblige her and start to scream hysterically, running as fast as I could down the packed streets of kids. Sam then tackled me and started to punch me (fake punching) and then I'd lie there still while she laughed manically and then run away. We did this a few times, with surprisingly little response from onlookers. The third time a woman came up to me and ask me if I was okay, which for some reason really embarrassed me. I hopped up, and was like, "yeah, of course!"
So weird. High school.
One more memory:
For a long time I was obsessed with hoop skirts. This obsession probably stemmed from Belle in, Beauty and the Beast. When I found out that they (hoop skirts) actually did exist in colonial times, I wanted one so bad. So, for Halloween in fourth grade, I wanted to be a hoop skirt girl. My parents and I went to a local thrift store, and pawed through the old skates and smelly suit jackets and found the perfect paisley lace- up- the- front dress for a hoop skirt dress. I went to school the next day, and when I got back, I looked up at the ceiling (where my parents had hung the dress from the lights to make the hoops for the hoop skirt part) and there it was, all ready and made. They had made huge circles out of thick wire and had sewn them to the bottom of the dress. It was perfect.
I loved it. I wore it to school for the Halloween parade, and was so pleased with it. That night I went trick or treating in it, and my overzealous- for- candy- friend, Caroline Weitzman, accidentally stepped on my skirt and dislodged one of the hoops, causing it to drag out from behind me for the rest of the night.
Telling stories is a tremendous validation of the vitality and importance of each one of our lives. The oral traditions of many societies throughout time have been the primary vehicle for cultural transference. It is an incredibly powerful tool, and one that I have never overlooked. I consider myself a storyteller--and I often find that I am telling other people's stories. So, why not create a forum, like so many others have done, to do that?
In thinking about our friends, family, and ethereal wanderings in the abstract, we realize that our comprehensive life experiences are worth documenting. The purpose of the discourse on this blog is simple and indulgent--but not selfishly so. We want to glorify the everyday (and not so everyday) experiences that each of us traverse so that we can look forward to each and every simple day in the future.
