Reading Tragedy

I have been reading this book for a month. It should have been a 5 day read, but the story was so permeated with tragedy that I had to put it down, over and over. I caught that the author was channeling Hamlet right away, since I taught it a zillion times.
This novel featured characters named Claude and Trudy- like Claudius and Gertrude from Billy Shake's play. There were spirits invoking action. Why was I so unprepared for the utter immolation of these lives? I was teased into thinking there would be a redemption. The author added dogs, wilderness, farming, and a run away to a possible murder. The protagonist is a mute boy, not deaf, who helps his family breed and train amazingly intuitive dogs. The dogs are characters, too- from his childhood mentor dog, to the trio who accompany him on his journey. The language is beautiful, and the story has a slow, unfolding sweep.

I know that this author succeeded, because I am still living in these pages. But I am heartbroken, and physically depleted from the emotional hurricane I traveled through. When Steve arrived in Michigan on Friday, I was determined to finish Edgar's journey. He was such a deliberate boy, with a plan, but the evil he encountered was wild. The last 50 pages found me with an elevated heartbeat, followed by an utter collapse. Even under a bright summer sun, I could not stop crying, turning a page, crying more. Steve was scared. I actually released so much stomach acid that I was ill, up all night. So I guess I can laud the author's art. It is a rare book that envelops me to this degree. But there is so little redemption, and so much despair that I will have great difficulty recommending this book. When a Pollyanna like me is held captive by sad pages- not even real life- there is power. But who wants to share the power of despair? Honestly, even writing about The Story of Edgar Sawtelle is making me sad. Enough. On to Pillars of the Earth, by Ken Follet- 1000 pages for September's Book Club. It started with a hanging and a curse, and it was a snap for me. My heart is hardened for the moment.

Happy Anniversary

Thirty odd years ago I proposed to Steve. Well- not exactly. He had succeeded in Detroit to the place where two ABC radio stations, WRIF and WXYZ, had their ratings eroding. A diabolical plot was constructed: get Steve to Chicago to assist an ailing ABC station, WDAI, and then handcuff him from ever returning. Seduced by the enlarged salary and bigger city, he packed his bags. He asked if I would be coming, and I said not unless we were married. Next thing I knew, Steve was doing a wet T-shirt contest to pay for a ring, and selling my condo on the air. He figured that he needed to strike before I considered what I was giving up. It was probably a good tactic. We were married on August 11, 30 years ago. And they (everyone) said it wouldn’t last!

I am a hybrid of German resolve and Irish sentimentality. When I met Steve, he was on autopilot, in a cold industrial town. He missed California, but was succeeding in his radio dream. He had been dispatched to the Heartland after the failure of a brief, ill-advised Vegas marriage. He did not consciously know he was a lost soul, what with all the partying and the serial “dating”. I knew. He owned a bed and a TV, and was driving a turquoise Subaru with an aftermarket air conditioner. His star was rising, and he was looking for systems of external controls, since his internal controls were wobbly. That would be me: Sensible Midwesterner, Catholic, schoolteacher, law student, anchor and lifeline. Add to that Pollyanna. I had no idea what I was taking on. Steve, ever the visionary, knew exactly what he was getting: my stubborn persistence and my loyalty to those I love. He got instant roots, and better odds for survival. He tested every molecule of my patience during the drinking years. But here we are, marking 30 years together. I am still glad he accepted my proposal.

Any one who describes marriage in romantic terms is a liar. Being married is an extended negotiation: you give, you get. If the two motions are in balance, you may succeed. If you give away too much, you can lose yourself. If you get too little, you either wither or resent. The terms are re-negotiated with every one of life’s twists and turns: children, new or evaporating jobs, health issues and a zillion other distractions. Rigidity is not an option. The rewards are immense: all of life’s blessings are enhanced and burdens reduced in the sharing.

What does it take to stay married? Forgiveness, both for minor irritations (toilet seat violations) or for epic mistakes. (Certainly not to be enunciated here) It takes wisdom, to know how to downsize any epic mistakes so you can forgive. Communication is essential, so things do not get out of hand. There are hundreds of skill sets in play, which can sustain a union that is expected to morph and change. even as human beings tend to hew to routine and comfortable roles.

What I learned, late, but not too late, is that the most essential strategy for success is to make the husband-wife merger the core relationship of your life. It is hard, but necessary, to separate from the family of birth. Their opinions must fade to a place of influence, but not control. Secondly, no matter how passionately your children are the focus of day-to-day existence, they are best served by a dedication to the framework that supports the family, emotionally and financially. That framework is a top down organization, and there must be unity at the top. It is possible to maintain that unity, but only if love and respect are present. Those are hard commodities to sustain, but it is possible.

For years, I suppose I stayed absorbed in the details of the boys’ lives. I would not change much- they are my proudest accomplishment. Steve was operating in a bigger, more pressured world, and the concentricity of our lives shrunk a bit. Then a reminder of our compatibility arrived when the boys all went to summer camp, and we spent a few weeks, alone, undiluted and focused on each other. What a gift! It was a wake up call that the kids would move on, but we needed to nurture the Mr. and Mrs., not just the Mom and Dad structure. It has not always been wine and roses, but we have used that road map to stay together. I believe it led Steve to drink his last Jack Daniels 14 years ago. Of all his many gifts to me, this was the hardest and greatest. It has made all the difference.

And so here we are, on our own, in Michigan- in the place we would frolic when the boys were at camp. (They will hate that imagery) A Charlie Trotter family feast was shelved so that Steve and I could just be together, alone, engaged, loving each other and still working at being a good boyfriend and girlfriend after 30 years of wear and tear. He is sleeping, I am typing. Yesterday he boogie boarded, I watched and worried. We had pizza at Stop 50, and fell asleep playing Scrabble on Steve’s phone. He was winning; the game is incomplete. Tonight he will formalize the Scrabble victory over the English teacher he fell in love with, and swept off to Chicago. After dinner, he will watch a Tivo version of the White Sox vs. Boston, while I feign interest. In New Buffalo, it’s Ship to Shore Festival, so there WILL be fireworks. It doesn’t seem too fancy, but it is a dream to me. I am a lucky one, as happy (happier) with my husband as I was 30 years ago. You give, you get. Then you give more. And so on… to 31 years, and with work and luck- till death do us part.

Paris Hilton Has a Good Sense of Humor

A Good Time Was Had By All

About the only regret I have about Pat's wedding is that my entire family was here in Chicago- including all cousins, spouses, and even our one precious Grand baby- and that I did not get a photograph of the whole clan. I was a bit sedated by the half-life of a Xanax I took to settle me after Terry Armour's death the night before, and I lost focus. This omission can never be corrected, since we were unnaturally spiffed up, but I swore I would immortalize Pop and the immediate family this weekend. And here it is.

Front row: Larry Cavanaugh(Marie), Tom the King, Steve the Prince, Marietta Cavanaugh Joliat (Paul)
Back row: Paul, Ty (Judy)Judy, Jennifer, Steve(Jennifer), Colleen Joliat (Mike), Mike, Marie, Me

Marie and Paul married Cavanaugh siblings! Their kids are double cousins.

My Dad has a healthy sense of economy. Note that he wore the same shirt to dinner on Saturday and brunch the following day. He has lost a bit of weight, and likes to tuck in his Hawaiian shirts to call attention to this fact. He also likes to remind us that when he enlisted in the Air Force, he was too skinny, so they allowed him a week to get from 125 to 127 pounds- presumably so they could find a uniform that would not slide off. He made weight with a few gallons of fluids in his bladder, visited the sanitation station where he lost it all, and off he flew.

On the subject of weight, he also told me I might try to lose a few pounds. He is generous with his unsolicited advice. If anyone thinks people get mellow as they travel through life, they have not met Tom Joliat. On the other hand, I have not weighed 127 since high school, so I did not get my metabolic gene from him. Point taken, no offense given. He bites his tongue with Steve, but I swear I have seen him rubbing my better half's belly and making wishes. I hope they all come true...but the wish that I lose weight is unlikely. At any rate, I thought I'd share. We had a wonderful reunion, and we hope to use this August weekend for many years to come in celebration of our Dad.

Happy Birthday Dad!

I often write about my dad, Tom Joliat, because he is a bit of a character, as well as a truly good man. He is celebrating his 84th birthday tomorrow, and all of his six kids and their spouses are converging on Royal Oak, Michigan to mark the day. Ten years ago I made the same trip, because Mom was facing heart surgery in a week, and she wanted to have a party before she was operated on. Those ten years have evaporated, and for all but a few days of them, Dad has been a widower.He is not the solemn or dour widower, mind you. He has traveled, dated, and flirted his way through a decade. It was a hard pill to swallow three weeks after the funeral, but it has been a joy knowing that his zest for life kept him from becoming a recluse with a snack tray and a daily cemetery visit. We have never had to worry too much about Dad, because he is independent and self sufficient. The sisters in Detroit witness far more of the wear and tear on his health; they attempt to keep an eye on him with dinner invitations and visits. Dad is not much for phone calls unless he has a mission, and so we do not talk as often as I would like. I try to blend with him in Florida every winter, and the time I carve out is too fleeting and precious. I am elated to be making this journey, which finds him robust and tickled at his good fortunes of family, golf, health, friends and faith.

If there ever was a man whose mantra was "LIVE", it is Dad. He pops out of bed as the alarm buzzes, and seizes each day. He can wring more joy from reading (and later reciting) the paper than any man I have ever met. He works each day that he is in Michigan (8 months a year), and judging by the forwarded e-mails he fires off, he is not only computer proficient, but also a bit of a slacker. Also, his sense of humor is a tad profane, but he will include warnings in the header if he believes he will shock me. He is politically incorrect, and unlikely to change. My Mom's constant chorus was, "Tom, please!" and it never worked a bit. Dad is the first to cackle at his own jokes, and has a one sentence prescription for fixing any problem. "Know it all" kind of fits him, and the fact is, he knows quite a lot.

He was the dad who explained to an inquisitive carload of high school girls what "69" was.To this day, Jenny is sorry she asked. That was quite a carpool- sex education, no charge. Dad was the educator parent-he drilled us in flashcards like the Great Santini. He ran the dinner table like it was West Point, and administered occasional corporal punishments if Mom had a punch list of atrocities at the end of the day. We never had to guess what his expectations were, or what the consequences would be. It was rigid, but predictable. It was the only way to manage 6 kids compressed into 10 years. He worked every day to give us the education that would take us forward in life. He never complained, and we realized we needed to pay him back by being good students and well behaved kids. There might have been ripples, but no tidal waves. In fact, I was the tsunami at the table, roiling dinner with my politics and rabble. Poor Mom- she slaved over the dinner, and I turned the meal into debate club. Dad stopped engaging, realizing I would moderate with time. And to his relief, I have.

Dad has a mini-van (best for his clubs and golf-shoe changes) and he loves the stow and go feature. He demonstrate the flipping seats with contagious pride. Last month, his grandson Andrew asked if he could borrow G-pa's wheels to drive his rat pack to a concert. Andrew brought his truck to the office, and there was a key exchange. Andrew's keys did not work, but Dad found an extra set on the floor, and off he went. In another salesman's truck. This fellow had no clue as to the aforementioned car-exchange, and so he called the police and reported the theft. His wife deposited him at work the next day, and he was stricken with joy. Into the office he ran, announcing to all the workers that the thief who stole his car had brought it back, and put it in the same exact spot. If only he had waited before he had a locksmith change every lock in his home.

Not every girl has a dad who was a fugitive. I am fortunate, because I am the daughter of Tom Joliat, the legend, the truck thief, the hero, the man. I wish him love, joy and happy birthday. He will make the most of his gift of time, and we will all share in the radiated energy. It is Dad's legacy.