Chris Bohjalian's Blog, page 42
March 20, 2011
Mud season? Bring it on!
Last week the snowdrifts outside my front door were taller than I am. Granted, that’s not a tremendous accomplishment if you’re a snowdrift, since I am not exactly a basketball center. But it had gotten to the point where I was tossing the snow on my front walkway over alabaster white corridor walls that were over six feet high. The path was exactly the width of my snow shovel.
And when I was done with the front walkway, it was necessary to scrape the snow off the roof, shovel a path to the woodshed, dig out my mailbox, and move the moguls away from the garage doors.
It was spectacularly beautiful and I’m not complaining. All of us have had a lot of cleaning up to do after the storms of March. And unlike some of my friends, I wasn’t stranded either at work or on the road somewhere. I wasn’t one of the superheroes manning the plows and fighting the good fight on our behalf against a mighty impressive blizzard.
And then, of course, after the snow we had days of rain and freezing rain. We had slush.
Well, today is the first day of spring. We are now a full week into daylight savings time. I feel no overwhelming need to wax poetic over how still Vermont becomes as a blizzard winds down or celebrate the preternatural quiet that envelopes our state in a snowstorm. I want to start experiencing all the wonderful meteorological charms that make spring so magic in the Green Mountains.
And, of course, that means mud season…in my basement. (Make no mistake, I like my basement. Sure, it’s a dirt floor and there’s that scary door in a dark corner that leads to nowhere. Details, details.)
Actually, mud season begins everywhere. I’ve lived in Vermont long enough that I know which roads in and around Lincoln become car-sucking slop – the insatiable quicksand of B-movies from the 1950s. It was nineteen years ago this month that a spring thaw, a rainstorm, and an ice jam near Montpelier’s Bailey Avenue Bridge would cause the Winooski River to flood the capital. That day my little Plymouth Colt was stuck on Quaker Street in South Starksboro from about 5:15 in the morning until just before six a.m., when a neighbor with a truck and some chains pulled me out. I was on my way to Danville to research a story about dowsing, and the fact I was stranded on Quaker Street for about 45 minutes meant I drove past Montpelier just as the ferocious white water was lapping the edge of the channel. It was fascinating and terrifying at once. I was listening to Vermont Public Radio as I drove, and moments after I was east of the capital, broadcasters would be describing the calamity as water poured into the city’s main streets.
The irony that I was about to meet with folks who specialized in finding water when it was in short supply was not lost on me. Only in Vermont.
In any case, spring here is nothing if not as newsworthy as winter.
And, yes, it is part of the price that we pay to live in this corner of New England. I wouldn’t live anywhere else, especially when I am biking up the Lincoln Gap in July or savoring the view from the top of Snake Mountain in late September. But one of the things that bonds us as a community is the shared reality that we live in a world of extremes.
Nietzsche wasn’t talking about Vermont when he wrote – and here I paraphrase – what doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger. He was probably writing about Charlie Sheen. But he could have been writing about the Green Mountains. After all, when they’re not green, they’re white. Or brown.
And, either way, they are going to exact from us a little sweat.
Bring it on: Soon enough there will be crocuses and daffodils in my front yard.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on March 20, 2011.)
And when I was done with the front walkway, it was necessary to scrape the snow off the roof, shovel a path to the woodshed, dig out my mailbox, and move the moguls away from the garage doors.
It was spectacularly beautiful and I’m not complaining. All of us have had a lot of cleaning up to do after the storms of March. And unlike some of my friends, I wasn’t stranded either at work or on the road somewhere. I wasn’t one of the superheroes manning the plows and fighting the good fight on our behalf against a mighty impressive blizzard.
And then, of course, after the snow we had days of rain and freezing rain. We had slush.
Well, today is the first day of spring. We are now a full week into daylight savings time. I feel no overwhelming need to wax poetic over how still Vermont becomes as a blizzard winds down or celebrate the preternatural quiet that envelopes our state in a snowstorm. I want to start experiencing all the wonderful meteorological charms that make spring so magic in the Green Mountains.
And, of course, that means mud season…in my basement. (Make no mistake, I like my basement. Sure, it’s a dirt floor and there’s that scary door in a dark corner that leads to nowhere. Details, details.)
Actually, mud season begins everywhere. I’ve lived in Vermont long enough that I know which roads in and around Lincoln become car-sucking slop – the insatiable quicksand of B-movies from the 1950s. It was nineteen years ago this month that a spring thaw, a rainstorm, and an ice jam near Montpelier’s Bailey Avenue Bridge would cause the Winooski River to flood the capital. That day my little Plymouth Colt was stuck on Quaker Street in South Starksboro from about 5:15 in the morning until just before six a.m., when a neighbor with a truck and some chains pulled me out. I was on my way to Danville to research a story about dowsing, and the fact I was stranded on Quaker Street for about 45 minutes meant I drove past Montpelier just as the ferocious white water was lapping the edge of the channel. It was fascinating and terrifying at once. I was listening to Vermont Public Radio as I drove, and moments after I was east of the capital, broadcasters would be describing the calamity as water poured into the city’s main streets.
The irony that I was about to meet with folks who specialized in finding water when it was in short supply was not lost on me. Only in Vermont.
In any case, spring here is nothing if not as newsworthy as winter.
And, yes, it is part of the price that we pay to live in this corner of New England. I wouldn’t live anywhere else, especially when I am biking up the Lincoln Gap in July or savoring the view from the top of Snake Mountain in late September. But one of the things that bonds us as a community is the shared reality that we live in a world of extremes.
Nietzsche wasn’t talking about Vermont when he wrote – and here I paraphrase – what doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger. He was probably writing about Charlie Sheen. But he could have been writing about the Green Mountains. After all, when they’re not green, they’re white. Or brown.
And, either way, they are going to exact from us a little sweat.
Bring it on: Soon enough there will be crocuses and daffodils in my front yard.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on March 20, 2011.)
March 13, 2011
Ordering basturma with bated breath
Recently when my wife, my daughter, and I were visiting my father in South Florida, we took him to an Armenian restaurant. For those of you who have wondered at the origins of my last name and presumed it was French, Lebanese, or Klingon, here is the truth: It is Armenian. My father is one hundred percent Armenian and I am half-Armenian. (My mother, as I shared last month, was one hundred percent Swedish.)
The restaurant is called the Hollywood Grill and it sits under a wide awning on the Boardwalk along the Hollywood Beach. We went there because I wanted my father to enjoy one of his favorite foods from his childhood: Basturma.
Basturma, at least the way my Armenian grandmother prepared it, is essentially dried strips of beef seasoned with enough garlic to kill a vampire. There would be no “Twilight” phenomenon and Robert Pattinson’s big claim to fame would be Cedric Diggory in the movie, “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire,” if Bella Swan had brought basturma to school in her lunchbox. The stuff – again, the way my grandmother prepared it and my father remembered it – gave a person poison gas breath. The World War One Battle of Ypres might have ended very differently if the Germans had filled their artillery shells with basturma instead of chlorine. One time when my parents were first going out, my mother canceled a date with him when he showed up to her apartment with basturma breath. She literally told him nothing was going to happen that night and to come back another day.
In any case, when my family got to the restaurant in South Florida, our waiter – who had recently arrived in the U.S. from Russia and was about seven years shy of fluent in English – was thrilled that we were ordering basturma. But he was deeply concerned that one order was not going to be enough for the entire table. The following is a portion of our exchange:
ME: We’re vegetarian. Only my dad is eating it. One order is plenty.
WAITER: No, two orders. Is very good.
ME: I believe it is. But it’s beef.
WAITER: Yes, beef. Meat!
ME: We don’t eat meat.
WAITER (looking perplexed): Then why you order basturma?
ME (pointing at my dad): He eats meat. He loves basturma!
WAITER: Is very good!
So, we got one order of basturma. It looked like strips of beef jerky, but I think my neighbors in Lincoln – 1,600 miles distant – could smell it. You could almost see the aroma wafting into the air, as if the plate were the tail of Pepe Le Pew, the Looney Tunes animated skunk. Diners at the next table looked at us in wonder. Clearly they had no idea what basturma was and presumed that one of us was in the midst of some super scary gastrointestinal disaster.
My dad, however, was in absolute heaven. Apparently the stuff was just like mama used to make it. Of course, that also meant I wanted him to ride home in the trunk of the car – or at least chew a whole tin of Altoids breath mints before exhaling ever again.
But I think what made him happiest wasn’t the robust flavor of the basturma: It was the litany of memories that flavor conjured for him. As he ate, he regaled us with stories of my grandparents – both Armenian immigrants – and growing up in the 1930s in a house that was spectacularly exotic by the standards of most on that suburban street not far from New York City. He shared stories even I’d never heard before, and I have been hearing his tales (some taller than others) for a very long time.
As Proust observed, food can do that. That basturma was my dad’s madeleine.
He turned 83 a couple weeks ago. I send him greetings and one piece of advice: As much as you liked that basturma, Dad, stick to leftover cake if you’re seeing your girlfriend tonight. Happy belated birthday.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on March 13, 2011.)
The restaurant is called the Hollywood Grill and it sits under a wide awning on the Boardwalk along the Hollywood Beach. We went there because I wanted my father to enjoy one of his favorite foods from his childhood: Basturma.
Basturma, at least the way my Armenian grandmother prepared it, is essentially dried strips of beef seasoned with enough garlic to kill a vampire. There would be no “Twilight” phenomenon and Robert Pattinson’s big claim to fame would be Cedric Diggory in the movie, “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire,” if Bella Swan had brought basturma to school in her lunchbox. The stuff – again, the way my grandmother prepared it and my father remembered it – gave a person poison gas breath. The World War One Battle of Ypres might have ended very differently if the Germans had filled their artillery shells with basturma instead of chlorine. One time when my parents were first going out, my mother canceled a date with him when he showed up to her apartment with basturma breath. She literally told him nothing was going to happen that night and to come back another day.
In any case, when my family got to the restaurant in South Florida, our waiter – who had recently arrived in the U.S. from Russia and was about seven years shy of fluent in English – was thrilled that we were ordering basturma. But he was deeply concerned that one order was not going to be enough for the entire table. The following is a portion of our exchange:
ME: We’re vegetarian. Only my dad is eating it. One order is plenty.
WAITER: No, two orders. Is very good.
ME: I believe it is. But it’s beef.
WAITER: Yes, beef. Meat!
ME: We don’t eat meat.
WAITER (looking perplexed): Then why you order basturma?
ME (pointing at my dad): He eats meat. He loves basturma!
WAITER: Is very good!
So, we got one order of basturma. It looked like strips of beef jerky, but I think my neighbors in Lincoln – 1,600 miles distant – could smell it. You could almost see the aroma wafting into the air, as if the plate were the tail of Pepe Le Pew, the Looney Tunes animated skunk. Diners at the next table looked at us in wonder. Clearly they had no idea what basturma was and presumed that one of us was in the midst of some super scary gastrointestinal disaster.
My dad, however, was in absolute heaven. Apparently the stuff was just like mama used to make it. Of course, that also meant I wanted him to ride home in the trunk of the car – or at least chew a whole tin of Altoids breath mints before exhaling ever again.
But I think what made him happiest wasn’t the robust flavor of the basturma: It was the litany of memories that flavor conjured for him. As he ate, he regaled us with stories of my grandparents – both Armenian immigrants – and growing up in the 1930s in a house that was spectacularly exotic by the standards of most on that suburban street not far from New York City. He shared stories even I’d never heard before, and I have been hearing his tales (some taller than others) for a very long time.
As Proust observed, food can do that. That basturma was my dad’s madeleine.
He turned 83 a couple weeks ago. I send him greetings and one piece of advice: As much as you liked that basturma, Dad, stick to leftover cake if you’re seeing your girlfriend tonight. Happy belated birthday.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on March 13, 2011.)
March 6, 2011
Winning! (By turning away!)
Well, we made it. We are finally moving beyond the Charlie Sheen real life sit-com: Middle-aged guy sleeping with a couple of wild and crazy porn stars while raising his kids. Sounds like the next “Everybody Loves Raymond” to me.
The next time you are searching for irony, google the script for “Apocalypse Now” and read aloud the first words you hear from Charlie’s dad, Martin Sheen. I am telling you, you will spit your coffee all over your computer screen. Fortunately, Sheen’s battle cry, “Winning!” does not seem poised to become this year’s, “You go, girl!” and we can all take some comfort in that.
In any case, with Sheen receding to the TMZ Hall of Shame (joining Lindsey Lohan, Mel Gibson, and anyone in a cowboy hat with the last name of Cyrus), as a nation we can now redirect our attention to Libya. (Quick, name the capital!) Or Wisconsin. (Quick, name the capital!) Or South Burlington. (Quick, name a corner that does not have a traffic light!) There is real news out there that affects us all.
When I look back on this week in years to come, I hope I will recall first of all Monday night’s Town Meeting here in Lincoln, Vermont. It began earlier than usual, a minute or two after six pm on the night of February 28 and ended. . .in March. Not quite. It was adjourned at 11:26 pm, according to my watch. And in that five and a half hours, we had spectacularly civilized debates about budgets and bond votes and whether a corporation really does merit personhood. I’m not kidding. It was terrific and, once again, I was unbelievably proud of my neighbors and of this Vermont tradition.
When we look back on this week, perhaps we will mark it in our minds as the beginning of the end of a despot’s regime in North Africa. Or the week that a boatload of heat-seeking antiaircraft missiles fell into the hands of terrorists. (There’s a news story some of you are thinking right now you’re going to have to find.)
There were negotiations, confrontations, and standoffs involving unions and union rights. Schoolteachers and linebackers alike faced the prospect of picket lines. One key difference? South Burlington administrators insist they will teach classes if necessary. NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell and Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones insist they will not don helmets and risk concussions themselves.
Incidentally, Roger Goodell and I played on the same high school football team together. Actually, he played. I sat on the bench. He was the starting tight end and I was a last string cornerback. For me to have had any playing time, the entire rest of the team would have to have broken their legs in a bus accident. I am not sure my white uniform pants were washed once that entire season. Just for the record, Goodell was a terrific guy. I am confident he still is.
And, of course, the catamount was officially stamped extinct. Arguably, this was not news. The last verifiable catamount sighting in Vermont was in 1881. Someone shot it.
The truth is, we are all capable of engaging with important news and debating issues that matter. I saw that again on Monday night. And yet many of us – well, yours truly at any rate – find it all too easy to focus on the escapades of this week’s Charlie Sheen. Is it because I have the emotional maturity of a 14-year-old boy? Well, yes. But the answer may also exist somewhere in the profound complexity of the world and its utter connectedness. Sheen is less threatening than Qaddafi and his name is much easier to spell. Make no mistake, that latter point is a big asset when it comes to reality TV star fame. Moreover, his antics are more comprehensible than a collective bargaining agreement. Sheen is (pun intended) easy.
Nevertheless, this coming week I am going to try to focus more on the big picture – and less on one very, very small story. Now that would be winning indeed.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on March 6, 2011.)
The next time you are searching for irony, google the script for “Apocalypse Now” and read aloud the first words you hear from Charlie’s dad, Martin Sheen. I am telling you, you will spit your coffee all over your computer screen. Fortunately, Sheen’s battle cry, “Winning!” does not seem poised to become this year’s, “You go, girl!” and we can all take some comfort in that.
In any case, with Sheen receding to the TMZ Hall of Shame (joining Lindsey Lohan, Mel Gibson, and anyone in a cowboy hat with the last name of Cyrus), as a nation we can now redirect our attention to Libya. (Quick, name the capital!) Or Wisconsin. (Quick, name the capital!) Or South Burlington. (Quick, name a corner that does not have a traffic light!) There is real news out there that affects us all.
When I look back on this week in years to come, I hope I will recall first of all Monday night’s Town Meeting here in Lincoln, Vermont. It began earlier than usual, a minute or two after six pm on the night of February 28 and ended. . .in March. Not quite. It was adjourned at 11:26 pm, according to my watch. And in that five and a half hours, we had spectacularly civilized debates about budgets and bond votes and whether a corporation really does merit personhood. I’m not kidding. It was terrific and, once again, I was unbelievably proud of my neighbors and of this Vermont tradition.
When we look back on this week, perhaps we will mark it in our minds as the beginning of the end of a despot’s regime in North Africa. Or the week that a boatload of heat-seeking antiaircraft missiles fell into the hands of terrorists. (There’s a news story some of you are thinking right now you’re going to have to find.)
There were negotiations, confrontations, and standoffs involving unions and union rights. Schoolteachers and linebackers alike faced the prospect of picket lines. One key difference? South Burlington administrators insist they will teach classes if necessary. NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell and Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones insist they will not don helmets and risk concussions themselves.
Incidentally, Roger Goodell and I played on the same high school football team together. Actually, he played. I sat on the bench. He was the starting tight end and I was a last string cornerback. For me to have had any playing time, the entire rest of the team would have to have broken their legs in a bus accident. I am not sure my white uniform pants were washed once that entire season. Just for the record, Goodell was a terrific guy. I am confident he still is.
And, of course, the catamount was officially stamped extinct. Arguably, this was not news. The last verifiable catamount sighting in Vermont was in 1881. Someone shot it.
The truth is, we are all capable of engaging with important news and debating issues that matter. I saw that again on Monday night. And yet many of us – well, yours truly at any rate – find it all too easy to focus on the escapades of this week’s Charlie Sheen. Is it because I have the emotional maturity of a 14-year-old boy? Well, yes. But the answer may also exist somewhere in the profound complexity of the world and its utter connectedness. Sheen is less threatening than Qaddafi and his name is much easier to spell. Make no mistake, that latter point is a big asset when it comes to reality TV star fame. Moreover, his antics are more comprehensible than a collective bargaining agreement. Sheen is (pun intended) easy.
Nevertheless, this coming week I am going to try to focus more on the big picture – and less on one very, very small story. Now that would be winning indeed.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on March 6, 2011.)
March 2, 2011
Apocalypse Now
From Martin Sheen's opening monologue in the movie, APOCALYPSE NOW:
"Every minute I stay in this room I get weaker. And every minute Charlie squats in the bush he gets stronger."
Ironic. Or telling. Or both.
"Every minute I stay in this room I get weaker. And every minute Charlie squats in the bush he gets stronger."
Ironic. Or telling. Or both.
February 27, 2011
A voice of reason bids adieu
Tomorrow night when Lincoln, Vermont gathers in Burnham Hall for Town Meeting, the big elephant in the room will be whether our school systems have let us down by creating a generation of adults who write only in CAPITAL LETTERS. Or in bold face. Or by underlining EVERYTHING. Or – most egregious of all – by presuming that exclamation points are cumulative, and the way to show you are SHOUTING in print is with lots of exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Actually, the big issue is a vote on a school bond. It’s just that most of us in Lincoln have gotten a lot of mail the past month about the bond vote, some of which has been the junk mail equivalent of a no-holds-barred, diva meltdown on “Celebrity Rehab.” In other words, there has been lots of typeface SCREAMING!!!!!!!!!!!
Nevertheless, when Lincoln gathers as a town tomorrow for our annual Adventures in Democracy (the thrill ride is coming soon to a Disney theme park near you), I tend to doubt the print YELLING will migrate into Burnham Hall. The discussion may be animated because we in Lincoln are as opinionated as anyone, but I will be very surprised if it becomes unreasonable. And the reason for that, in part, is our Town Meeting moderator, David Marsters. Marsters has been wielding his gavel from the front of the room at Town Meeting for a quarter-century now, a master of ceremonies who keeps tempers in check and the town on task. He tells us what is germane and what isn’t – and no one wants to stand up and say something that isn’t germane. Saying something that isn’t germane at Town Meeting is sort of like showing up for a party at the Italian Prime Minister’s without contraception. It’s just embarrassing.
But this Town Meeting will also be a little wistful for all of us who appreciate the incredible service that Marsters has rendered as moderator, because this will be his last year as ringmaster. After 25 years, he is calling it a career.
“It’s been a great run,” he told me, “but I turn 65 in May. I don’t want to reach that point where someone has to whisper in my ear that it’s time to move on. I never want to be a disgruntled old fart.”
Marsters has spent his professional life as an educator, at different times being an English teacher, a social studies teacher, a principal, and Director of Migrant Education for Vermont in the 1980s. Currently he is a reading specialist at Mount Abraham Union High School in Bristol and the business manager for the Lincoln Volunteer Fire Company.
He says that town meeting has actually changed relatively little in the quarter-century he has been moderator. “Sometimes people seem a little more savvy and have done a little more homework,” he observed, “but town meeting still matters. In an era when so much of the communication is electronic and civility is lacking, it’s so important that we get together and do this.”
Among his favorite memories – and what typifies the tradition for him – is this: “I used to enjoy watching Lee Cassidy and Val Lust joke how their votes cancelled each other out,” he said. “They were great friends and people listened to them with respect, but they always seemed to be on different sides of an issue.”
He also cited Fred Thompson as a mentor: “We couldn’t have been more opposite in politics, but we were similar in our wish to give our kids a good school and a good education. He is the poster boy for being able to maintain your equanimity and disagree with people.”
That could describe Marsters, too. “It has been such an honor and such a privilege to be moderator,” he said. “This is democracy. This is what our ancestors fought for.”
And that just might be a sentiment that deserves a couple of exclamation points.
Godspeed, my friend, and a very big thank-you. See you next year in the audience.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on February 27, 2011.)
Actually, the big issue is a vote on a school bond. It’s just that most of us in Lincoln have gotten a lot of mail the past month about the bond vote, some of which has been the junk mail equivalent of a no-holds-barred, diva meltdown on “Celebrity Rehab.” In other words, there has been lots of typeface SCREAMING!!!!!!!!!!!
Nevertheless, when Lincoln gathers as a town tomorrow for our annual Adventures in Democracy (the thrill ride is coming soon to a Disney theme park near you), I tend to doubt the print YELLING will migrate into Burnham Hall. The discussion may be animated because we in Lincoln are as opinionated as anyone, but I will be very surprised if it becomes unreasonable. And the reason for that, in part, is our Town Meeting moderator, David Marsters. Marsters has been wielding his gavel from the front of the room at Town Meeting for a quarter-century now, a master of ceremonies who keeps tempers in check and the town on task. He tells us what is germane and what isn’t – and no one wants to stand up and say something that isn’t germane. Saying something that isn’t germane at Town Meeting is sort of like showing up for a party at the Italian Prime Minister’s without contraception. It’s just embarrassing.
But this Town Meeting will also be a little wistful for all of us who appreciate the incredible service that Marsters has rendered as moderator, because this will be his last year as ringmaster. After 25 years, he is calling it a career.
“It’s been a great run,” he told me, “but I turn 65 in May. I don’t want to reach that point where someone has to whisper in my ear that it’s time to move on. I never want to be a disgruntled old fart.”
Marsters has spent his professional life as an educator, at different times being an English teacher, a social studies teacher, a principal, and Director of Migrant Education for Vermont in the 1980s. Currently he is a reading specialist at Mount Abraham Union High School in Bristol and the business manager for the Lincoln Volunteer Fire Company.
He says that town meeting has actually changed relatively little in the quarter-century he has been moderator. “Sometimes people seem a little more savvy and have done a little more homework,” he observed, “but town meeting still matters. In an era when so much of the communication is electronic and civility is lacking, it’s so important that we get together and do this.”
Among his favorite memories – and what typifies the tradition for him – is this: “I used to enjoy watching Lee Cassidy and Val Lust joke how their votes cancelled each other out,” he said. “They were great friends and people listened to them with respect, but they always seemed to be on different sides of an issue.”
He also cited Fred Thompson as a mentor: “We couldn’t have been more opposite in politics, but we were similar in our wish to give our kids a good school and a good education. He is the poster boy for being able to maintain your equanimity and disagree with people.”
That could describe Marsters, too. “It has been such an honor and such a privilege to be moderator,” he said. “This is democracy. This is what our ancestors fought for.”
And that just might be a sentiment that deserves a couple of exclamation points.
Godspeed, my friend, and a very big thank-you. See you next year in the audience.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on February 27, 2011.)
February 20, 2011
A better angel in heaven
Earlier this month my good friend John Vautier died when he fell clearing snow off his roof. John had survived a National Guard stint in Bosnia and two bouts with cancer, but he was taken from us at his home in New Haven while doing one of the more pedestrian – though clearly dangerous – chores that mark the winter for all of us here in New England. If I know John, from his vantage point in heaven he is shaking his head at the irony, his hands jammed into his front pants pockets, a big stick of gum in his mouth, and a wry grin on his face.
That’s the thing about John. As our mutual friend Andrew Furtsch put it when he called to tell me the devastating news, “John was the kind of guy who made every room a little brighter.” He did. He lit a room with a luminescent smile and an infectious laugh like few people I will ever know.
John, Andrew, Drew Smith, and I worked out together at Bristol Fitness. Some days there would be others. On Wednesdays, Andrew and John would dead-lift: They would crouch and hoist comically large amounts of weight off the floor. It was almost like a Saturday Night Live sketch: I think either of them could have lifted a Mini Cooper.
But the thing about John, and the reason why I will miss him so very, very much, is that underneath that façade of National Guard staff sergeant and weightlifter extraordinaire was an unbelievably nurturing guy. When I recall him in my mind, I see him first as the Sunday school teacher for the United Church of Lincoln preschool class. There is four-year-old Wanda Goodyear leading him by the hand from the sanctuary to their classroom; there is five-year-old Joe Norton sitting beside him – John in a tiny chair meant for 50-pounders, not 200-pounders, his knees practically at his chin – the two of them watching a VeggieTales movie while the adults are discussing the sermon in the next room.
I remember John at the gym, not merely lifting boulders attached to a bar. I see him spotting me as I am bench-pressing. He would make absolutely certain that I didn’t do something stupid.
That was the thing about John: Whether you were five years old or fifty, he was going to do all that he could to keep you safe.
And I see John with a blue bandana on his bald head as he is in the midst of chemotherapy for breast cancer – “chest cancer, in my case, thank you very much,” he sometimes said – smiling and telling me a story about his beloved sons, Braham and Dana, or asking about my daughter, Grace. He called Grace the “Girl Child,” as in, “How’s that beautiful girl child of yours?” We would talk about our wives, feeling a connection because we both had the good sense to marry smart, beautiful women who loved stray cats and dogs and celebrated the animal shelter, and because we shared October 13 as our wedding anniversary.
One of the books John read while he was in the midst of chemotherapy was Michael Shaara’s saga of Gettysburg, “The Killer Angels.” The title comes from a Union colonel’s recollection of how a schoolteacher once suggested to him that man, if he is like an angel, “he’s sure a murderin’ angel.” But the Civil War is also framed by Abraham Lincoln’s first inaugural address, in which Lincoln beseeched his nation to be touched “by the better angels of our nature.” John loved the novel and we discussed it after he read it and then again at the gym. We talked about the killer and the better angels that may reside inside us.
John, however, only had a better angel.
One of my favorite pieces of advice that Theodor Geisel – a.k.a., Dr. Seuss – offered us all is this: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” This is how I believe John Vautier would want us to view his life: I am going to try not to cry even though John’s life is over. Instead I will try to celebrate that it happened in the first place.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on February 20, 2011.)
That’s the thing about John. As our mutual friend Andrew Furtsch put it when he called to tell me the devastating news, “John was the kind of guy who made every room a little brighter.” He did. He lit a room with a luminescent smile and an infectious laugh like few people I will ever know.
John, Andrew, Drew Smith, and I worked out together at Bristol Fitness. Some days there would be others. On Wednesdays, Andrew and John would dead-lift: They would crouch and hoist comically large amounts of weight off the floor. It was almost like a Saturday Night Live sketch: I think either of them could have lifted a Mini Cooper.
But the thing about John, and the reason why I will miss him so very, very much, is that underneath that façade of National Guard staff sergeant and weightlifter extraordinaire was an unbelievably nurturing guy. When I recall him in my mind, I see him first as the Sunday school teacher for the United Church of Lincoln preschool class. There is four-year-old Wanda Goodyear leading him by the hand from the sanctuary to their classroom; there is five-year-old Joe Norton sitting beside him – John in a tiny chair meant for 50-pounders, not 200-pounders, his knees practically at his chin – the two of them watching a VeggieTales movie while the adults are discussing the sermon in the next room.
I remember John at the gym, not merely lifting boulders attached to a bar. I see him spotting me as I am bench-pressing. He would make absolutely certain that I didn’t do something stupid.
That was the thing about John: Whether you were five years old or fifty, he was going to do all that he could to keep you safe.
And I see John with a blue bandana on his bald head as he is in the midst of chemotherapy for breast cancer – “chest cancer, in my case, thank you very much,” he sometimes said – smiling and telling me a story about his beloved sons, Braham and Dana, or asking about my daughter, Grace. He called Grace the “Girl Child,” as in, “How’s that beautiful girl child of yours?” We would talk about our wives, feeling a connection because we both had the good sense to marry smart, beautiful women who loved stray cats and dogs and celebrated the animal shelter, and because we shared October 13 as our wedding anniversary.
One of the books John read while he was in the midst of chemotherapy was Michael Shaara’s saga of Gettysburg, “The Killer Angels.” The title comes from a Union colonel’s recollection of how a schoolteacher once suggested to him that man, if he is like an angel, “he’s sure a murderin’ angel.” But the Civil War is also framed by Abraham Lincoln’s first inaugural address, in which Lincoln beseeched his nation to be touched “by the better angels of our nature.” John loved the novel and we discussed it after he read it and then again at the gym. We talked about the killer and the better angels that may reside inside us.
John, however, only had a better angel.
One of my favorite pieces of advice that Theodor Geisel – a.k.a., Dr. Seuss – offered us all is this: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” This is how I believe John Vautier would want us to view his life: I am going to try not to cry even though John’s life is over. Instead I will try to celebrate that it happened in the first place.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on February 20, 2011.)
February 19, 2011
The Night Strangers -- The Cover
Can you judge a book by its cover? Will it matter in the digital age?
We'll see.
In the meantime, here is the link to my next novel, THE NIGHT STRANGERS, arriving October 4, 2011.
http://chrisbohjalianblog.com/2011/02...
I'd love to know what you think! To preorder the novel, click here:
http://www.amazon.com/Night-Strangers...
We'll see.
In the meantime, here is the link to my next novel, THE NIGHT STRANGERS, arriving October 4, 2011.
http://chrisbohjalianblog.com/2011/02...
I'd love to know what you think! To preorder the novel, click here:
http://www.amazon.com/Night-Strangers...
February 15, 2011
A New Podcast and Interview
Chris sat down with Dana Barrett of the Midtown Review while he was in Atlanta for a revealing conversation. Listen to the podcast here:
http://midtownreview.com/books/author...
http://midtownreview.com/books/author...
February 13, 2011
Truth is relative in family history
Sometimes I am just not the sharpest knife in the cutting block. The brightest bulb in the tanning bed. The thickest hair extension on Steven Tyler’s head. The – never mind, you get the drift.
It was on Valentine’s Day in my freshman year of high school that it finally dawned on me that my Italian grandfather was not my Swedish mother’s biological father. Yup, I was 14 years old when I wondered for the first time why my mother’s maiden name was Annalee Carolyn Nelson, but my grandfather was Peter Zibelli.
This is not merely a testimony to the reality that I was not as interested in family history as one might have hoped. It may be an indication of how much Peter Zibelli and Irene Nelson loved each other.
Of course, it might also be a sign of how spectacularly acrimonious my mother’s parents’ divorce had been in the 1930s, when she was a little girl. My mother stopped speaking to her biological father when she was a young woman and I never met him. I didn’t even know he existed until I was in the ninth grade. But we won’t go there on Valentine’s weekend.
Instead we will travel back to that Valentine’s Day when I was an awkward teenager in Miami, Florida and my grandparents – my Nonny and Popops – were visiting my family from their home on the other side of the state. I like to believe I was home that Valentine’s Day having dinner with my mother and father and grandparents because it was a school night, rather than a weekend, but there’s no guarantee. I was not much of a catch.
This was not long after my mother had dressed up in a white gown and put a crown of burning candles in her hair to celebrate Santa Lucia day – a Swedish tradition as Christmas nears. It was an impressively Dionysian gathering even by the standards of the take-no-prisoners 1970s. Unfortunately, my mother’s blond locks caught on fire, and so she had jumped into our swimming pool. The only casualties were her hairdo and the cardamom cake she was carrying. (Given my mother’s limitations in the kitchen, no one rued the loss of dessert.) Even her pride was fine, because it made it a great story and there was nothing my mother or father cared about more than a great story.
Two months later, Valentine’s Day, my father was telling his in-laws about this near cataclysm while trying to honor a Swedish custom. And so my grandfather shared a story about a near fireworks disaster in Italy. Then I noticed that my mother called her father “Peter.” And something clicked.
Later that night I asked my mother about the man I called Popops and for the first time learned that my mother’s Swedish parents had divorced when she was a child and I was never going to meet her biological father. But that, in her opinion, didn’t matter, because Popops was her real father – the man who had raised her, paid for her college, and given her away at her wedding to my dad. (Her biological father had not attended the ceremony.)
Perhaps because we were having this conversation on Valentine’s Day, my mother added that she considered the marriage of Nonny and Popops a romance for the ages. It might very well have been. When I think of Nonny and Popops, often I think first of a moment a half-decade and change after that Valentine’s Day. My grandmother was years into Alzheimer’s by then, but my grandfather was going to care for her at home, no matter what. One day when I was visiting them, I watched him gently wash her hair in the kitchen as if she were in a salon. He had been there for her in health and now he was going to be there for her in sickness.
That’s just one of the reasons why Peter Zibelli was such a great husband – and such a great dad.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on Sunday, February 13, 2011.)
It was on Valentine’s Day in my freshman year of high school that it finally dawned on me that my Italian grandfather was not my Swedish mother’s biological father. Yup, I was 14 years old when I wondered for the first time why my mother’s maiden name was Annalee Carolyn Nelson, but my grandfather was Peter Zibelli.
This is not merely a testimony to the reality that I was not as interested in family history as one might have hoped. It may be an indication of how much Peter Zibelli and Irene Nelson loved each other.
Of course, it might also be a sign of how spectacularly acrimonious my mother’s parents’ divorce had been in the 1930s, when she was a little girl. My mother stopped speaking to her biological father when she was a young woman and I never met him. I didn’t even know he existed until I was in the ninth grade. But we won’t go there on Valentine’s weekend.
Instead we will travel back to that Valentine’s Day when I was an awkward teenager in Miami, Florida and my grandparents – my Nonny and Popops – were visiting my family from their home on the other side of the state. I like to believe I was home that Valentine’s Day having dinner with my mother and father and grandparents because it was a school night, rather than a weekend, but there’s no guarantee. I was not much of a catch.
This was not long after my mother had dressed up in a white gown and put a crown of burning candles in her hair to celebrate Santa Lucia day – a Swedish tradition as Christmas nears. It was an impressively Dionysian gathering even by the standards of the take-no-prisoners 1970s. Unfortunately, my mother’s blond locks caught on fire, and so she had jumped into our swimming pool. The only casualties were her hairdo and the cardamom cake she was carrying. (Given my mother’s limitations in the kitchen, no one rued the loss of dessert.) Even her pride was fine, because it made it a great story and there was nothing my mother or father cared about more than a great story.
Two months later, Valentine’s Day, my father was telling his in-laws about this near cataclysm while trying to honor a Swedish custom. And so my grandfather shared a story about a near fireworks disaster in Italy. Then I noticed that my mother called her father “Peter.” And something clicked.
Later that night I asked my mother about the man I called Popops and for the first time learned that my mother’s Swedish parents had divorced when she was a child and I was never going to meet her biological father. But that, in her opinion, didn’t matter, because Popops was her real father – the man who had raised her, paid for her college, and given her away at her wedding to my dad. (Her biological father had not attended the ceremony.)
Perhaps because we were having this conversation on Valentine’s Day, my mother added that she considered the marriage of Nonny and Popops a romance for the ages. It might very well have been. When I think of Nonny and Popops, often I think first of a moment a half-decade and change after that Valentine’s Day. My grandmother was years into Alzheimer’s by then, but my grandfather was going to care for her at home, no matter what. One day when I was visiting them, I watched him gently wash her hair in the kitchen as if she were in a salon. He had been there for her in health and now he was going to be there for her in sickness.
That’s just one of the reasons why Peter Zibelli was such a great husband – and such a great dad.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on Sunday, February 13, 2011.)
February 10, 2011
Some small (very small) thanks
We have renamed the Secrets of Eden, Rock and Roll, Paperback Book Tour: It is now Snow-Pocalypse 2011. There has been snow, sleet, ice, hail, and all manner of rain.
But even in the worst of the blizzards and ice storms, there have been readers, and for that I am grateful beyond words. Truly: A thousand thanks.
Now, a number of you (seven) have asked whether there will be a free book giveaway, the way there was for the hardcover last year. My answer? Why not!
So, here’s the drill: If you want a chance to win a free, signed and personalized copy of either Midwives, The Double Bind, or Skeletons at the Feast, simply post the following comment in response to this blog entry here on goodreads:
“I will go to a store or order on-line a copy of the new Secrets of Eden paperback before dinner on Saturday night, February 12.”
Then purchase a paperback copy of the novel on-line or in a bricks and mortar store before you have dinner that night: Saturday, February 12. That’s it! You’re on your honor to really buy one.
If you already own Secrets of Eden in any format, simply post the following in response to this blog entry:
“I have already bought my copy of Secrets of Eden.”
Later this month, we will randomly select five names from the posts, and those five winners may choose which of the three titles listed above they would like, and we will mail them the signed and personalized book.
That’s it: In the next three days, either buy the book or tell us you have.
Regardless, thanks so much for being a part of the rock and roll book tour. It has been an absolute joy to meet so many of you!
Off to St. Louis now. Thanks again for your faith in my work.
But even in the worst of the blizzards and ice storms, there have been readers, and for that I am grateful beyond words. Truly: A thousand thanks.
Now, a number of you (seven) have asked whether there will be a free book giveaway, the way there was for the hardcover last year. My answer? Why not!
So, here’s the drill: If you want a chance to win a free, signed and personalized copy of either Midwives, The Double Bind, or Skeletons at the Feast, simply post the following comment in response to this blog entry here on goodreads:
“I will go to a store or order on-line a copy of the new Secrets of Eden paperback before dinner on Saturday night, February 12.”
Then purchase a paperback copy of the novel on-line or in a bricks and mortar store before you have dinner that night: Saturday, February 12. That’s it! You’re on your honor to really buy one.
If you already own Secrets of Eden in any format, simply post the following in response to this blog entry:
“I have already bought my copy of Secrets of Eden.”
Later this month, we will randomly select five names from the posts, and those five winners may choose which of the three titles listed above they would like, and we will mail them the signed and personalized book.
That’s it: In the next three days, either buy the book or tell us you have.
Regardless, thanks so much for being a part of the rock and roll book tour. It has been an absolute joy to meet so many of you!
Off to St. Louis now. Thanks again for your faith in my work.
