On little cat feet
Greetings from Cape Town!
Warning: this post contains two maudlin poems and a string of unconnected thoughts. The first poem is by Carl Sandburg.
I was thinking about this poem for two reasons. The Atlantic Seaboard in Cape Town almost never has a marine layer, but on an otherwise sunny Friday afternoon, the fog rolled in from the sea. Zola and I were down on the beach playing soccer with some kids, and in a matter of minutes, the sun was obscured, and everything looked like a dream sequence from a David Lynch movie. The almost-Caribbean blue of the water contrasting with the greenish gray of the air and the sky.
I went out and surfed (badly) in the heavy fog. The only adjective I could come up with to describe it was “trippy.” To my delight, Zola came back down to the beach in his wetsuit, and joined me with his boogie board in the surf. He said it was too beautiful to not get out into the middle of it.
The other reason for the Carl Sandburg poem is that India got Tallulah a kitten on Friday. They have named the kitten Tigger. Our neighbors, Mel and Roxy, are giving away the offspring of their hellcat, Bubbaloo. The kitten acquisition was not exactly authorized: I sort of hate cats. It is difficult for me to say no to Tallulah under any circumstances. It is impossible to say no when she is dancing around the house singing, “The wonderful thing about Tiggers, is that Tiggers are wonderful things!” A moment of weakness that I will have years to regret.
Other unconnected thoughts.
Zola finished exams this week, and has essentially finished Grade 5. During the course of the year, he had 64 “cycle tests” and “assessments” plus 16 full-on exams. He passed Afrikaans, which was a big boost to his self-confidence. I question an educational system that expects 10-year olds to behave with the maturity and self-discipline of university students, but we are proud of him for getting through it.
For the last several months, India has been working with a group of fifth-grade girls from a very tough township called Manenberg. Every Friday, she goes out to their school, Red River, and leads them in physical exercise and games. She is trying to instill life skills and self-confidence, and understand the challenges they face. She likes spending time with the girls, and it gives her insight into the policy realities of trying to improve girls’ lives more generally.
Yesterday morning, India rented a municipal bus, picked up 35 of the Red River girls in Manenberg, and led them on a hike up Lion’s Head mountain. A wonderful initiative, but this story ends sort of badly.
I walked with Tallulah at the back of the pack. Zola was somewhere in the middle, remarkably composed as the only boy amongst 35 girls his same age. Lion’s Head is not particularly dangerous, but it is a real mountain hike. Everyone got to the top all right, and there were pictures and celebrations. On the way back down, a group of girls at the front were running. One girl, Kayleen, tripped, and fell about 15 feet off a small cliff. She broke her arm, loosened a few teeth, and was badly cut up.
The mountain rescue service sent a helicopter for her, which was pretty dramatic. India held Kayleen for an hour, getting covered in blood, until the paramedics stabilized her and flew her down to the base of the mountain. India ran down, and rode to the hospital in the ambulance with Kayleen.
In the meantime, the drama level ran high amongst the 34 remaining girls. A lot of them were scared and crying. Fortunately, a community group from Maneneberg happened to be hiking down at the same time, and many of the adults knew these girls. They helped calm them, and get everyone down to the base of the mountain safely. It was a nerve-wracking experience, particularly doing all of this and keeping an eye on Tallulah. The only humorous moment was when we were nearly at the bottom, and Tallulah asked me to carry her, saying, “Dad, my dogs are barking!” Aside from that, it was tense and unpleasant.
India stayed at the hospital for five hours, until Kayleen’s cuts were sutured, and her arm was set. Kayleen’s mother arrived eventually, but the mother-daughter dynamic was frosty and formal. Not sure what is going on there.
Poor India felt horribly guilty and responsible, even though it clearly was not her fault. All of the Red River girls really hope that India continues working with them. I hope so too.
The second poem is called “Eight Bells,” and was written by my mother’s cousin, Peter Davis. Peter wrote this on the occasion of his father’s death in 1998. Peter himself died last week, and Mom sent this around. It is longer than Fog. I found it beautiful and unbearably sad. I wonder what my own kids will remember when I am dying? I hope we don’t find out for a long time.
Eight Bells
1
Our father lay dying at 2 a.m.
He is my favorite, said Eileen.
Each midnight she’d toast 4 slices of raisin
bread, buttered.
He would eat them whole, she explained.
We stood around his bed.
Here, see how the skin is mottled. This
is the process.
2
It comes like the tide.
See how the mottling has moved from
leg to hip. Seven breaths like breakers
on a ragged coast, then 40 seconds of silence,
repeating, through the day and night.
2:05 a.m.
It’s happening, Eileen says. She holds my father’s
left hand. My sister, Helen holds his right
hand. He opens his eyes. My sister
says, Hi Daddy. We’re here Daddy.
We love you. It is 2:07. He closes his eyes and does not breathe.
I kiss my father’s forehead.
3
I walk down the hall, past
prints of landscapes,
dancers,
a fire extinguisher,
to the nurse’s station,
to make some phone calls,
thinking of my father singing,
“I’ll Be Around,”
in front of the mirror shaving when we were kids,
in the car on the way to the football games,
at family reunions,
at the nurse’s stations during the last days of his life.
He had a wonderful voice. I was having difficulty
keying phone numbers. He was an excellent punster
and had a fine sense of humor that often involved
shooting one of several persons.
4
Knock knock, he said, on countless occasions.
Who’s there, someone would answer.
Orange juice.
Orange juice, who?
Orange juice sorry you made me cry,
he would say, and everyone would make a face
like it was lemon juice,
and he would fill the room
with that wonderful wild-ass laugh.
5
They came into his room, one by one,
on the last full day of his life.
He was very special, they said.
He was such a love, said one.
He always said I love you to me, said another.
He had an extraordinary appetite, said a male nurse,
and a smile like sunlight, he added.
6
During the last full day and night before
he died, we sat and stood around his bed:
Jessica, Will, Pete, Carol, Elizabeth,
Tucker, Mark, Deb, Helen, Byron Jr.,
and Linda. Will started the “Whiffenpoof
Song” and we sang together. Jessica
told Byron how unspeakably handsome
he was and how much she loved him. Elizabeth
and Helen kissed and stroked him, and told him
everything was okay. Tucker distributed
his usual rib-cracking hugs. Will put
on the Mills Brothers, one of Byron’s favorites.
Pete (that’s me) read poems by Charles Bukowski
and Mark Strand. I saw my brother, Mark, fill
with grief and silence. My little brother,
Byron Jr. held his father’s foot through
the sheets — silent–tears catching the dim light.
7
I see my father, much younger than I
am now, refereeing football in West
Barrington, leaves airborne in the fall sunlight.
I see him driving to Howard Johnson’s
with the windows down and the radio
blaring double play, Pesky to Doerr to Goodman.
I see him snag a football one-handed
at full gallop.
I hear him singing
with that wild light in his eyes: “Only You,”
“Slingin the Ink,” “Over There,” Then Thousand
Men of Harvard,” Baby Won’t You Please Come
Home,” and my personal favorites — “I’ll
Be Glad When You’re Dead You Dirty Dog,” and
“Hooray! Hooray! My Father’s Gonna be Hung.”
8
I see my father running free, before
a fair wind off the New England Coast,
a single sail, on a great circle: “From
where we come is to where we shall return,”
reads my calendar for October.
He was the last of his generation.
Eight Bells, Dad. What’s the course?
We relieve the watch.
