I remember during covid there was a time people realized nothing mattered more than art.
Was there a new episode of a series you loved? Everything is solved.
Had your favorite musician put out a song you could hear? The day is saved.
Maybe relationships matter. But relationships are built on stories, which are art.
My niece recently brought me a gift. I had forgotten that I had given her a blank book to turn into her own book. She is a wellspring of art, pumping out pretend restaurants, machines, tiny toys. Like Cher in “Mermaids,” she serves strange hors d’oeuvres (just take one, it’s fine).
The book was the story of our relationship: the places I’ve lived, where she has visited me. The things we did: fashion shows, the playground with the sea monster, walks in town.
I remember when she was little, she got a farm animal toy set, and I observed her playing with it. She was putting the animals in different groups. I couldn’t figure out what the organizing criteria was, so finally I asked.
“It’s by the sound they make,” she said.
But I still didn’t understand why the pigs were with the sheep, and the cows were with the horses. “What do you mean?”
She clicked two of the plastic animals together. “The sound they make,” she said.
I was convinced she was a genius.
Not more of a genius than her sister, mind you, her sister, who continues to achieve my dreams in theatre and film. But a genius.
As I looked through the book, where each of us was represented by a llama (just go with it), what can I say but my heart exploded, and I actually said, “Well, I guess I can die now,” by which I meant, that’s the purpose of life, to connect, to love each other.
Though some Christians don’t get real into that part, I’m a big fan, and sometimes, sometimes, I succeed at love.
Yesterday I went with my dad and stepmom to a medical appointment. My dad has a serious illness, but he’s in a medical trial, and he’s not in any immediate danger. He can be crabby about it. Both he and my mom are people who have vowed never to experience any physical weakness. My mom almost lifted a 40 pound bag of cat litter when I met her at my door, and I had to be like, no. Just no. I don’t even want to lift that bag. We took a family trip to New York City a few years ago, and though she is in her 70s, she walked every step we walked. Which on a Schurman vacation is always, somehow, many, many step.
My dad will lift any heavy thing you put before him. He will find a way. His parents were addicts. So he can do anything, and has been doing it. The best way to describe him is “strong like ox.”
I was accompanying my dad this time to make sure I was fully informed. My stepmom handles all his care, but she needs help. It’s not a one-person job.
Dad was cool with me going back with him. He was to get another infusion of this experimental med. He’s been tolerating it just fine. Is it working? Everyone keeps asking me this. How the hell would I know? We have no “control set Dad.” The “is it working” comes from the study they are doing. I’m sure it’s a double-blind, kick ass study, like real scientists still occasionally get to do.
He asks for a warm blanket. I accept this, though it is a bit hard to square Dad ever needing a blanket. He runs hot, and hasn’t ever seemed to require anything soft, other than a bed to sleep in.
He has his sprite and his pretzels. We are ready.
The nurse comes in and starts hooking him up. “In the right hand,” he insists. “I’m left handed.” Being left-handed is part of his brand.
He starts talking about his career. “Were you the good kind of lawyer?” the nurse asks.
I don’t think he answered that, but let me say, yes, the good kind.
He starts going into stories, some of which I’ve heard before, some I haven’t. And the ones I’ve heard, I’m happy to hear again.
The best ones are about the mafia, and corrupt bank officials. My dad was close to both types, and has an ironclad good guy identity. Which is real.
There’s one about an abandoned building where mafia guys were ultimately employed to bury hazardous waste. There’s the one about being flown to Vegas, only to realize that this ain’t right.
There’s one about a local judge whose office was full of guns. The one about the guy who made special requests of a builder, like how his stairs should be wide enough for his boots, and then refused to pay.
There’s the story of an abandoned pipeline that a utility wanted to use. He was employed to talk to the owners of the land it sat on. Some of them were in nursing homes, and the court wondered if they could actually consent. My dad has always been great with the elderly. He will listen to every story. He will smile big. He will pat shoulders. He needs to get that karma back as he ages.
There was a story about someone buried under an apple tree along the Santa Fe Trail, and how she was later found, and that had to be dealt with legally.
The story of him being admitted to the Missouri Supreme Court is a good one. He tells about being driven to the courthouse by a retired judge, and then going in the back door. Everyone says hi to the retired judge. Dad loves this the same way I secretly love having a key card at work, and being able to get anywhere in the school. I am behind the scenes! I know what’s up!
There was some talk about how unusual Texas law is, that it requires a special book, “The Red Book,” which I’m sure contains no communism at all.
There’s a story about a man who owned a bank, and embezzled, and shot himself before he could be found out.
A story about he helped a Teamster guy who thought his wife was cheating.
Because my dad is the essence of a very good boy, spicy stories taste way spicier.
Are all the stories true? If “true” means “including valid information and emotion,” then absolutely yes.
“All of this is because of the Lord,” he will always finish. “Because of how the Lord has led me.”
My niece is a teenager. My dad is in his seventies. I am honored to be in the middle, and here to accept their stories. There is nothing better.
Going On 