A Joyful Symmetry

The following is the toast I made to Owen and Emily at their wedding... -KP

As some of you may or may not know, I am the writer in the family, and as such, I had to write this toast down. I am not a public speaker and have spent my entire life avoiding any prospects where public speaking might be required. I could have been a contestant on American Idol, for instance, but, alas, I don’t like standing in front of crowds. So forgive me for appearing scripted but know that what I have to say about this fine young couple is nonetheless true and from the heart.

That very weekend after my dad died, I attended a wedding. It was my cousin-in-law’s, up in Klamath, California, and I took the opportunity to study the Best Man there. Owen was my Best Man and he did a fantastic job, but you can’t study the Best Man at your own wedding –you’re too busy smiling for pictures and dancing with relatives you haven’t seen in six years. So I studied the Best Man up in Klamath and it turns out that Best Men do a lot. At one point during my cousin-in-law’s wedding, the Best Man had to go out and buy several generators and some gasoline because, in the beginning, there was only one and it wasn’t going to cut it for the lights, the band, the slide show and the Barney-shaped jumper house. I hope, tonight, we don’t have a blackout because I don’t know the first thing about generators, and I doubt one would fit in the trunk of my Ford Focus. But this is what Best Men do: they are the MacGuyver’s of the wedding scene, solving the myriad puzzles that inevitably arise during any wedding, even if it’s just to say, “Don’t worry about – have another drink.” Generally speaking, they keep an eye on things so that the bride and groom don’t have to and are there to make sure that the guests are comfortable. I checked with Emily Post, the dowager empress of etiquette, on any further duties I might have tonight and found a number of titles that I am absolutely and utterly neglecting so far: “Best Man As Baggage Master,” “Best Man As Valet,” “Best Man As Companion-In- Ordinary” and so on. She had nothing to say about fetching generators and gas, and much to say about cuff links and clergyman’s fees, and I got to wondering whether she had actually ever been to a wedding before. I quote: “He also registers for the newly-weds, secures the hotel key, returns to the house of the groom, gives him the key and assures him that everything at the hotel is in readiness. If he is thoughtful, he may himself have put flowers about as a decorative welcome.” End quote. Flowers!? Owen, I’m sorry –I was so busy being your “Companion-In- Ordinary” that I must have forgot the flowers. To her credit, though, Mrs. Post may have never attended a wedding way up in Klamath, but she does understand that the Best Man’s job is a big one that requires creativity, poise and a very dry sense of humor.

Actually, it’s been quite easy to be Owen’s Best Man. In typical Owen-fashion, he has approached today with total confidence and composure, which I’m glad for. I think the image of the overly nervous, bumbling bridegroom is a bad cliche, and if my brother somehow typified it by hyperventilating over a pair of missing cuff links, I’d say that missing cuff links were really the least of his problems, if you catch my drift. Owen, cool as a cucumber, steady as stone, has so far only asked me to do two things today, the first of which was to bring my i-pod and portable stereo so that we could all cut a rug later. Check. The second was to say something about –and this is how he put it– “Dad, and us planning the wedding when we did.” “Sure,” I said, as casually as meeting the request to bring my i-pod because, at the time, it really seemed that simple. And it is that simple for all of us who have been lucky enough to have Emily here with us on the West Coast and to witness her and Owen’s courtship, and to know firsthand its chronology alongside the unfortunate chronology of my dad’s illness and death. But for all the folks living in the frozen tundra of Minnesota or wherever else that is far away from their beloved daughter, sister, granddaughter, cousin, niece, or friend –whoever Emily is to you– this wedding would no doubt seem rushed to you if one minute you heard that Emily’s boyfriend’s father was sick and the next minute you heard that they were getting married. Perhaps you didn’t even get this degree of play-by-play. Perhaps all you heard was, “Emily’s getting married and her fiancé’s father just died.” If this was the case, that wouldn’t surprise me. I only live 350 miles north of LA and Owen only calls me when he’s stuck in traffic, and only after 6 PM when his minutes are free. My father died on my one-year anniversary and I have plenty of photographs that prove that he was in perfect health that day. O and Em were there, and they could tell you. So were several of you who are also here today. We had a good time and my dad was there. That’s how fast his cancer moved through him and that’s how fast life can clip along. So here’s the truth of the matter, and listen carefully –what I’m about to say is subtle but true: Owen and Emily did not rush into marriage; rather, they rushed the date on which to marry and they did this so that my father might attend. Rush into marriage, the contract, the promise to face life together until death do you part –No. In fact, many of my friends and family members at my own wedding who had only met Emily for the first time that day, came up to me throughout the evening to ask, “So, has your brother proposed yet.” But rush the wedding date so that my dad might make it –Yes, of course. More than anyone else, a son wants his father at his wedding.

So why didn’t they postpone the wedding date once it became apparent that my dad wouldn’t be attending? This is a good question. But when your dad and once-future father-in-law dies in less than a year’s time, you realize something: this is life, it’s crazy, and if we were to always wait for the “right” time to do things, nothing –absolutely nothing– would ever get done. Nobody understands this more than Owen and Emily who, together, actively and daily cared for my father to the very end and at the expense of their jobs, their free time, and, yes, their time alone with each other. This is dedication. This is sacrifice. This is compromise. And these are the cornerstones of a lifelong partnership. For Owen and Emily to stick to their wedding date AFTER they knew that my dad would not be attending is an indication of their ability to stick to commitments in general, in the face of life’s most disruptive event, death. If this is not the foremost value that we want all young newlyweds to possess as they begin their lives together, then I don’t know what is. This, and perhaps what Emily Post suggests, to quote “not give up all pretense of good manners and treat your partner like an ‘old shoe’,” end quote.

Yes, that would stink...

So, tonight, I have two toasts –one for the bride and one for the groom, and we can drink to them each and then together at the end. The first toast is for Emily and it goes: “It is, in the end, a joyful symmetry / To have lost my dear father / And gained a sister in thee.” Welcome to the family, Em. Salud!

And to my brother, Owen. This is one that you know already but I’m going to say it anyway because it’s true: “Life is short and life is mean, so get yourself some loving in-between.” Salud!

I congratulate you both and wish you all the best. To the bride and groom!

How "El Gato" Got His Name...

Teddy, Teddy, Teddy,

You leave behind a lot of very sad friends. I'm one of them.

Well, I didn't get to meet Ted until the mid sixties. I was pledging Phi Sigma Tau at the old SFVSC. Ted was always nice to me as a lowly pledge. Lowdown, maggot, worthless, scumbag pledge. See, I still remember those good ol' days.

I was only 19. Boy, is that possible? Nineteen? Yeah, I guess so. As most of Ted's fraternity brothers will attest, there were bonds forged then that are still as strong as ever. Who would have thought that over forty years could pass and the "bros" still stay in close touch? Amazing.

One of my fondest memories of those days was when Ted and I were roommates in our fraternity house. Why, I can remember those halcyon days at the dinner table. I remember one time the butter dish was just slightly out of my reach and to my left. I, trying to use my best table manners, asked if someone could pass me the butter. Sure they could. The brother on my left picked it up and took a big hunk out of the butter and passed it to his left. I said, HEY! I just got a grin from all the brothers as I watched the butter plate travel further away from me.

So, after the butter dish made the rounds, it finally got back to me. Empty. Ahhh. Fraternity life. One for all and all for one! Actually, I thought it was pretty funny. Even at the time. I got punked.

And as I mentioned, Ted and I were roommates. Actually, we shared the room with a redhead. Murphy. Ted's dog. Good ol' Murph. If my memory serves me correctly, I do believe that Murphy was so popular around the campus, that he got onto the Homecoming Queen ballot as a write-in. And WON! Ahh. Fraternity hijinx.

Even back then as a student I had a penchant for, ahem, staying out late. Yep, most nights after I got through with my catting around I would head back to the fraternity house late and tippy toe in, shoeless, hoping to disturb no one.

As I tippy toed into our room, once in awhile I'd actually step on Murphy in the dark. Good dog. Nary a whimper. Good dog. Its really a funny feeling to be in your stocking feet and step on a dog with ample amounts of loose skin. Kind of like stepping on a banana peel, but furry.

I could usually sneak in without awakening Ted. I think. But occasionally he'd pry open one eye and muster up a friendly welcome home greeting for me.

The point here is that after so many, many times of habitually coming home in the wee hours after catting around, Ted dubbed me "El Gato". The Cat. The name kind of stuck and that became my nickname. It is on my fraternity mug. Every time I catch a glimpse of that mug up on my shelf, I always think about Ted. Always.

Owen, did you know that it was your dad that gave me that nickname? True story.

So, Ted, I'll miss you a lot. Your legacy is a fine family. I know you're proud.

Larry Ruiz
El Gato

The early years

I met Eddie in the early 1950's at St. Cyrils grade school in Encino. We were the graduating class of 1958 (from eigth grade) and went on to Notre Dame High School where I failed religion after ten years in Parochial school. I remembered Mary and Joseph - but couldn't remember the kids name. This is where I lost track of Eddie. But going back to the formative years I remember him as a freckle faced guy with reddish brown hair. Lots of energy and always looked a little unkept because he was so active in everything (particularly recess). He was a good kid, an average student and well liked by all. There is some irony in how I finally found Eddie. In 1990 I organized the first reunion of our 1958 graduating class. I was living in Granada Hills on Tilford Court - about one block from Nugent. I was able to locate about 55 of the 70 former classmates (pre internet and zabasearch). Eddie was among the missing. In 2000 we had another reunion and again we were unable to find Eddie. Then on August 2, 2008 we had a 50 year reunion. We thought we might have located Ed at that time (on Nugent) but no response to our letter. Then unfortunately three weeks after the reunion I was forwarded a notice from someone who was still in Notre Dame's good graces - that Ted Peterson had passed on. I inquired further and found out the particulars. Yes indeed Ted (we called him Eddie back in the day) and I had almost been neighbors for close to 30 years in and around Granada Hills. I went to his memorial service and passed on to his wife a picture of the 1958 graduation ceremony. I left the memorial with mixed feelings. A sense that I had failed in finding Ed who had lived so close - yet a happiness in meeting Eds wife and son Kyle. In that brief moment I felt that Ed had a very nice family and had probably had a very happy and fulfilling life. I still keep in touch with about 45 of Ed's former classmates and have notified them of his passing. I would like to have a nice family picture that I could forward on to our classmates so that they too might know that Ed had a great (but far too short) life. My condolences go out to the Peterson family. Just remember that Ed still has many friends from his formative years at St. Cyrils. Rest in Peace Eddie, your friend always - Mike Duffy

Malarkey: a definition...

Malarkey --speech or writing designed to obscure, mislead or impress-- was one of my dad's favorite words. Any time he doubted the veracity of what Owen or I was saying, he'd cock his head to the side and give us that look: "Ah, you're so full of malarkey it's comin' out your ears," he'd bellow. Malarkey? What is this word that dad keeps using? I wondered. Of course, I understood its meaning from the context of his refrain and especially from his body language -- the sideways look, his hands shooing me away like so much hot air. For the longest time, I thought the word was Irish and that dad had no doubt acquired it from a long line of aunts and uncles, grandmothers and fathers, who liked to tell tall tales and pull each others' legs. But I recently looked up the word and the dictionaries tell me that "malarkey" is an Americanism from the 1920s. Maybe this is a bunch of malarkey, right? Who knows? What are Americanisms anyway except words, like Americans themselves, that come from all over the place. You see, there's a problem of origin here, the idea that something is true because it comes from an original source. Is there ever an original source to anything? Especially when it comes to words and stories?
I've started this blog as a memorial to my dad who understood well the value of storytelling and, equally, the gold in bullshit. My dad loved to tell stories and I, for one, loved to listen to them. I happen to believe that we are actually made of stories --the stories that we tell each other about each other and the stories that we tell ourselves about our "selves." In his last days, when my dad was only a shell of himself and unable to speak, I knew for certain that people are much more that the flesh and bones that they inhabit, the brains housed in their skulls. They are words put together, one after another, making meaning out of this "stuff" called "life," and as long as the stories are alive, then so is the person.
So you see my purpose in starting this blog. It's a memorial in the truest sense of the word. Sit down. Sigh. And tell a story about my dad. Make it long and sour. Make it short and sweet. Fill it with enough malarkey to turn the page brown. Above all, be yourself. And the rest of us will do our best to ignore that stuff comin' out your ears.

--KP, August 30, 2008