Thursday, November 13, 2014

Vast, Encompassing Circle

It's a strange thing to worry about writing with a newborn in the house. The baby sleeps, his brothers race and cavort, suffer and secret off into their room for secret fun. In the tub last night, Walt held out a plastic yellow cup to Sam, whispered, "Mug," and both broke into hysterics. This happened at least eight times in a row. Toward the end, Sam picked up a plastic brick and whacked it at Walt's head, which often signals the end to such fun. Except Walt didn't flinch. He offered the mug faster. Sam whacked harder. They both kept laughing. Being the oldest, Walt is easier to get out of the tub. We offer the new shiny carrot: bubblegum-flavored mouthwash. Still, Walt is heartbroken to leave the bath when Sam gets to stay a little longer. Sam is thrilled to stretch out in the tub, more than half its length now. Sam has a lower boiling point but he recovers from his heartaches faster. Such is the lot in life of the middle child toddler, I guess. I still don't think of Sam as the middle child, since only five weeks ago he was the younger boy and Walt was the older. Walt is older still, but of course, now he's the oldest. Now, Monty is the baby. He gets his own bath and bedtime, and hours upon hours of being held by the people who love him, which these last two weeks has included my parents visiting from Florida, showing up first thing in the morning to get us an extra hour of sleep, fold laundry, hang curtains, make meals, help with the preschool drop-offs and pick-ups. Cait and I have even gone out on a couple of afternoon dates. Tomorrow, we're off to JC Penny's to take a family portrait. Then it's back to the trenches, the wonderful pleasant trenches, to keep our heads down and the boys amused--stories, games, drawing, backyard LARP-ing--and at night, if the baby is sleeping and the boys are sleeping and Cait is sleeping, if there is any time leftover, I'm sitting down to try to work piecemeal through something that can become the next poem, essay, book. Which is its own kind of romantic worry, that there will be more time, but also, that such time is worth saving outside of the present moment, before it races past memory and into imagination; when, whatever else we feel, we feel very needed and alive. 

Poem Written in A Copy of Beowulf

At various times, I have asked myself what reasons
moved me to study, while my night came down,
without particular hope of satisfaction,
the language of the blunt-tongued Anglo-Saxons.

Used up by the years, my memory
loses its grip on words that I have vainly
repeated and repeated. My life in the same way
weaves and unweaves its weary history.

Then I tell myself: it must be that the soul
has some secret, sufficient way of knowing
that it is immortal, that its vast, encompassing
circle can take in all, can accomplish all.

Beyond my anxiety, beyond this writing,
the universe waits, inexhaustible, inviting.

― Jorge Luis Borges

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Purge #3

Things are going. They are nearly gone. That corner where we kept the shiny appliance boxes in case the machines broke or we needed to return them? Clean and papered over. The snap-in child seat strollers? Pushed to one side and wheeled, ended to end, beside the makeshift tool box, Christmas decorations, and emergency earthquake kit. A new steel shelf is up and ready to store still more dry goods, paper products, and pounds upon pounds of diapers and nut butters. Never mind we are a five-minute drive from several supermarkets and one conspicuous wholesaler, or that we have done this twice before. The garage is our off-site bunker. We’re ready to unleash the baby swing, neglect-o-pod, co-sleeper, and bouncer. In the meantime, several boxes of books can be bought for two or three dollars on Amazon. Find Cait's seller page. Look for the poetry books I bought in graduate school, and then schlepped to Romania, Indiana, and San Francisco, the baby books with purple and red page borders, the copy of Infinite Jest I bought to read before the last baby arrived, the companion guide to Infinite Jest I eventually read instead.

TimeOut Chicago ran last week a list of gone-but-not-forgotten theater companies in Chicago. I had to check that my beloved StageLeft was still there, in the building down the street from the old apartment. Katie and I saw The Good Person of Szechuan, there, and a couple of hometown musicals, but the one that knocked our socks off was Mrs. Mackenzie's Beginner's Guide to the Blues, about a high school teacher who has an affair with her ambitious, if cynical student, to whom she later outgrows her usefulness. This was April, 2002. The play was heartbreaking, especially the Clapton-esque fan favorite that the boy became, riffing onstage, at the very end: all skill and no heart. The Famous Door, however, is long gone. A few weeks after “Mackenzie’s….” Katie and I took in their all-day, one-hundred-roles adaptation of Cider House Rules. We had never seen anything like it. We became members there, too, though even the manager warned there probably wouldn't be a next season. The theather that housed company is now a gym. The neighborhood that houses the gym has turned over a few of its landmarks: the Turkish restaurant with the mat seats, the pet store, the used-record shop with the Specials poster in the window.

Last March, when the books came out, I paid the discount author's rate to buy two boxes filled to the brim with each: poetry in one box, memoir in the other. The boxes are gone now. The books are gone, too. I've sold them at readings and given them to friends. I donated one copy to the local library and sent another to a man in Kentucky, who wrote to say that he'd just gone through something similar. Last week, I bought a used copy of the memoir from Amazon.Com for fifteen cents. I was curious who was selling the book so soon after it came out. The copy was in pristine shape, unsigned; hardly opened. Whoever purged that copy did so quickly. 

Cait and I’s lesson plans are set (more or less) two and three weeks out. We've fixed the closet door and kitchen drawer, the bath mats, grill grate, dishwasher valve, and socket. We have a new rice cooker, new car seat, new computer cables, new diaper rash ointment and dozens of AA and AAA batteries. The tubs of baby clothes, sorted by size, are stacked by the garage door. I brought in a couple of the baby toys that Walt spotted when we were putting away bikes the other afternoon. I plugged in the batteries and, as he flicked the different switches, various Sesame Street characters took turns popping through doors and singing their songs. I knew all the songs and could imitate the voices pretty well, which thrilled Walt. Sam was thrilled, too. Across the room, for a few beautiful minutes, he had the whole burgeoning LEGO empire to himself, though of course he eventually toddled over, climbed up onto the sofa, and worked poor Cookie Monster until the orange cookie finally refused to pop back up.

Walt was twenty-one months the day that Sam arrived. I remember a whole spring of sepia-toned afternoons, gardens in full bloom, and long walks around the block with my only boy. I remember reading a few of the sibling books and going for long runs through the neighborhood, listening to music on my phone, certain Cait would call any minute to say the labor had begun the new baby was on his way. Of course, she never did. Sam came into this world right on time, and a few days later, we were mapping out our afternoons and evenings, me with Walt and Cait with Sam, our routines suddenly simultaneous and escalating and two-fold, like birds arriving to the duck pond where Walt and I used to take crackers and stale bread to kill the morning, or Gremlins breeding in darkness. The reality of two kinds under two years of age set in. We were off to the races.

Now, of course, those exhausted mornings chasing one boy out the door while holding the other in my arms, warming up some milk, have matured into busy afternoons at the park, quick trips in the car, long plane flights when the boys travel well and we know enough to (usually) stay ahead of their distractions and (sometimes) make it into a game. Our Gremlins are furry and cute again. The afternoons are again sepia-toned. Sam and Walt can scoot their balance-bikes through the neighborhood and I’d like to think, because we’ve done this before, I’ll do a better job of enjoying the first few weeks of Three-Pete’s life. Probably, I should know better. All those easy routines and comforts of becoming a family that fall apart, Jenga-like, with missed sleep, spiked fevers, or cantankerous siblings, may compound exponentially; what more than a few friends have described as dropping out of man-to-man into a zone coverage. Then, we’ll emerge out of our fog. Walt is already four. Sam is two. Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. Our new plan is nearly complete. I’m glad we’ve made one, regardless of whether it will prove to be of any use. For now, at least, we have the clean floors, tidy shelves, and stockpiles of food to sustain these next few weeks of waiting.

Monday, August 18, 2014

Let’s Stop Asking Ourselves to be Fine

Last week, I called my friend Eric to talk about Robin Williams’s death. For fifteen years, now, Eric and I have talked about movies. He always has something interesting to say about the movies I like, and he makes good recommendations of the ones I haven’t seen. This all started as Peace Corps trainees, when we used to walk across Mymensingh together, running down the catalog of great movies we’d both seen and loved. I can still picture the route in my mind pretty well, most of the way, though photos don’t really do the route justice. As we talked, it turned out that Eric and I had both listened to Marc Maron’s reposted 2010 interview with Robin Williams. Eric had watched the 1998 Hollywood Squares episode that Whoopi Goldberg posted in memoriam. I paraphrased some of Chris Connelly’s eloquent remembrance. I was happy to hear Eric’s voice, and to think we both had something interesting to say about someone neither of us knew. I’ve spent more time than I would have expected sorting through the noise around Robin William’s death, listening (to paraphrase the Chicago doc) for some kind of signal, frustrated by the bland consensus (he was a flawed genius who died before his time; he was a sick man who loved to entertain people) and my own very small sense of touchstone (in middle school, I wore out my parents’ VHS copy of Good Morning, Vietnam trying to memorize the disc jockey parts; World’s Greatest Dad [see below] is surprisingly good).

What is the essence of that noise that gathers so quickly around an unexpected public death? I think it has something to do with candor. We do not want the people around us to die. We certainly hope they will not die unexpectedly. But more than that, we want to know that the people we know and love, and even, the people we admire, are well and will be well, more or less, in the long-term. That they might not be well becomes a kind of uncertainty that does not follow entirely from good wishes and warm feelings. The un-well are not always polite. They seem, sometimes, unpredictable. And what would it mean for a chronic illness to persist, what with all the various pills of all shapes, sizes, and colors; a clinically-trialed forgetting pill; those colorful and elaborate scans on late-night PBS of cranial electrochemistry; the seeming advances in therapeutic treatment? No matter than a century or so ago the shape and size of the cranium clearly indicated character and mental ability, whose ills cocaine alleviated. We want treatments to fix, fully and well. The persistent natures of chronic and complicated feelings—despair, neglect, vulnerability, self-destructiveness—and situations—grief, disease, neglect—remind us too much of our own humanity, which, by its very nature, is provisional and vulnerable.

One of the louder moments of consensus following Robin Williams’s death has been the well-meaning suggestion that friends and family members suffering from clinical depression should ask for help. Jimmy Kimmel said it like this: if you’re sad, please tell someone. As though someone in the middle (or, worse, at the end) of a profound depression, to the point of being suicidal, might pause their illness long enough to recognize and understand it, poke their head out of the shell, and then speak of their illness to a neighbor, a sibling, someone sitting across from them on the northbound El. Never mind, for a moment, the remarkable similarity to those post-9/11 NYC subway ads about terrorists. What responsibility exactly are we undertaking with such recognition? What should the informed person exactly do: call a friend, their doctor, a hotline, the police? How is the recognition of real helplessness a symptom of sanity? I’m thinking of the beginning of Catch-22:

“There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

"That's some catch, that Catch-22," he observed.

"It's the best there is," Doc Daneeka agreed.”

Robin Williams acted well and often, and seeing him from the distance of a career, he behaved publicly with a grace and kindness—a sanity—that made his public appearances, however zany, feel like great performances. Recognizably manic: human. And yet, like most ticket buyers, I stopped expecting very much from his acting. Then, I stopped buying tickets to his movies. I agreed he was very good in the beginning, and that something then sort of fizzled out once I recognized his tricks. Like most of America, apparently, Cait and I re-watched Dead Poet’s Society last week, a movie that I swore at some point I’d never watch again. It had settled in my mind as Hollywood bunk about creativity; a movie that, as a teenager, seemed liberating, and then fizzled out into something not so good. After his death, the movie came instantly to mind to remember him, suddenly iconic and signature. The movie itself is still uneven. But something in that movie is good, and it comes forward with more clarity the few times Williams is on-screen.

Really, the later-period Robin Williams gem is World’s Greatest Dad. Williams is terrific in it, largely because his performance in the movie seems distinctly un-Robin Williams. With none of the usual tricks, he inhabits that most inarticulate quality of grief—ambivalence—without doing much of anything I recognize as acting. Reading about Williams’s life, I kept thinking of that paragraph toward the end of Scott Russell Sanders’s essay about his father’s alcoholism, Under the Influence, in which Sanders passes through an intervening eighteen years of sobriety, to the back-end of the time during which his father drank himself to death. During his interview with Marc Maron, Williams talked about his twenty years of sobriety, and then the moment of a hotel mini-bar, and the following years of struggle, which seem, in the accounts of his death, some part of a stalled and ultimately failing effort, the gun in the first act, the broken promise.

What did Robin Williams ever promise me that I felt entitled to hold him personally to account? I didn’t know the man. Like so much feeling, my reaction falls along an incriminating and messy spectrum of contradiction and irresolution, the ebb and flow of meaning and fact. To quote the fantastic opening of Andrew Solomon’s The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression:

Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair. When it comes, it degrades one's self and ultimately eclipses the capacity to give or receive affection…In depression, the meaninglessness of every enterprise and every emotion, the meaninglessness of life itself, becomes self-evident. The only feeling left in this loveless state is insignificance.

It’s an awful thing to feel loveless, to despair, to neglect what we know better than to take for granted. But when we rush to comfort people who truly suffer with bland sentiments of “it gets better,” and “ask for help,” etc., I think we patronize them a bit. In such moments, we’re really speaking to ourselves. We are assuring ourselves that there is an end to suffering, and a clear path to that ending. And yet, we know that suffering follows no clear path to its end, if it ends at all. In place of sympathy, perhaps, we might try honesty, and barring that, simple consideration:

At the time [Emily Post] undertook her book of etiquette, there would have been few American households untouched by the influenza pandemic of 1918. Death was up close, at home. The average adult was expected to deal competently, and also sensitively, with its aftermath. When someone dies, I was taught growing up in California, you bake a ham. You drop it by the house. You go to the funeral. If the family is Catholic you also go to the rosary but you do not wail or keep or in any other way demand the attention of the family. In the end Emily Post’s 1922 etiquette book turned out to be as acute in its apprehension of this other way of death, and as prescriptive in its treatment of grief, as anything else I read. I will not forget the instinctive wisdom of the friend who, every day for those first few weeks, brought me a quart container of scallion-and-ginger congee from Chinatown. Congee I could eat. Congee was all I could eat. (The Year of Magical Thinking)

Public figures are easy to imagine. We don’t know them at all. We’re happy marking them to a place and time in our life, a performance in a movie, a haircut, a grace of the body, that asks them forever to, always, please, just stand in place. As movies, as in life. We look for one thing until we’re sure we see it, after which, we miss all the rest. Most of the explanations we make after a death are about ourselves: what we fear still, the mistakes we do not mean to make again in our lives, the cautions we relive or wish someone had made to us, how we suffered our own cataclysmic loss. Which is how I think it should be. The initial reaction is the public part. The private part is all the rest. At first, we’re lucky to think we can make any sense at all, with spouses, family members, strangers, even good friends, at that moment when the beautiful life, however flawed, is suddenly gone, and our memory of that life fills with clues, which are useless now for how they make sense.

Monday, May 12, 2014

Writing Process Blog Tour

My friend, the author and editor Michael Nye, tagged me in a blog tour author Q&A. If you haven't already read his thoughtful entry, you can find it here. My part here is to answer the four questions that Michael sent me, and then "tag" another author, link you in her direction, and the thread continues.  

1. What am I working on?
I am making very slow and careful edits on a draft of a new memoir, Forgetting, which measures grief against transformation in a continuing life. I am also writing new poems, several about professional wrestlers. What interests me about wrestlers is how their bodies define, sustain, and, sometimes, fail them, often suddenly, against their best intentions, and with terrible consequences. In this way, I think the poems make a natural analog to Forgetting, as well as my first two books, Young Widower: A Memoir and The Consolations: Poems.

2. How does my work differ from others in its genre?
I take to heart what a teacher once said about writing, that the subject matter may change but the subjects do not. Formally, my memoirs don’t have arcs, consolations, analogous discourses, or literary truths distinct from literal ones. I try to follow Louise Gluck’s advice about poetry: the music follows when the writing is good. I tend to write poems for the people I love.

3. Why do I write what I do?
I write to close the gap between consensus and experience.

4. How does my writing process work?

I start with a question that interests me. Then, I write like hell to finish a first draft of a book—poetry or memoir—that answers the question in every way I can think to do so. Over the next few years, I go back and edit, research, shape, gut, add whole new sections or pieces, etc. The first writing is manic, intensive, optimistic, abstruse, and full of many, many placeholders for things I know I’ll say better when I revise. The slow editing that follows feels very high-stakes and immensely satisfying. I’ll take chapters out and paste them into separate files, which I’ll then revise across 60 or 70 successive drafts, each one time-stamped and saved separately, just in case I lose something I love or need to retrace my steps back to a wrong turn. I keep open books I admire around me when I’m writing. They put a chip on my shoulder, in the best of ways. In the writing phase, I’ll plug into my headphones and listen to a single album over and over. I edit in silence. I do my best writing late at night, after everyone is asleep. The last two books I wrote, when they were finished, I ended up needing a stronger eyeglass prescription. It’s hard on the eyes to write on a computer at night.

I've tagged the poet Chloe Honum to go next. 

Wednesday, March 26, 2014


Often, I think, I'll be happier if I wake up in the morning and see I've written a blog post the previous night. Whatever I say, however I'm aware of it, the writing will mean I've continued something that has held considerable meaning for me these last seven and a half years, and at times, has conveyed the center of that meaning, and its making. I'm hopeful also to revive a distinct habit of sense-making. The last year or so, I've been hard at work on a new memoir, to which I've devoted the majority of my free time, and all of my writing time. Like this post, I don't know that the book will amount to anything beyond my conviction to write it, and a certainty, bordering equally at times on arrogance and stubbornness, that having finished the writing will matter to the world and to me, and make a worthwhile account of the thing that interests me. Overreach, at least, is full of feeling.

The Tree of Life is a beautiful movie. It keeps coming to mind. Last week, saying goodbye after dinner with friends, our younger son disappeared from sight. It turns out he had gone on a walkabout, though of course, we had no idea. We ran from room to room, out to the garden, shouting his name, and when that didn't work, Cait went in one direction down the street while I went in the other. It was terrifying: near dusk, our semi-busy road, and our toddling twenty-one month old, wordless but extremely agile, somewhere close by and nowhere in sight. A car stopped and the driver asked me who I was missing, and I said my son, and I asked her to drive slowly if she was going toward our house, but she was turning into an apartment complex. And what if I'd missed him already; if, in my haste, I'd passed him down some alley or behind some bushes, a few turns in this direction or that. And how beautiful, my friend's voice, calling out my name to relay the news. Cait had found him a hundred yards or so down the road, giggling, toddling, running toward the bridge that crossed the ditch to the major intersection near his favorite park. He knew the way. Cait brought him home. In the living room, I squeezed him wildly. Cait did it, too. His older brother climbed into my arms, and smiled nervously. What was going on? He didn't get it. He wanted in. Then, it was bath time. We used food coloring to dye the bath blue. We added bubbles. The moment was passed and we had caught a break. What else was there to say about it?

No doubt, as our older friends all insist, this is a magical parenting time, for which one day in the not-too-distant future we will pine. I can't believe it. I'm sure it's the case. And yet, something in this intensely personal experience is familiar, family to family. There is a pattern, and within that pattern, direction, a series of recognizable and articulated constants and shapes. The Chicago doc recommended recently Andrew Solomon's terrific nonfiction account/history of depression, The Noonday Demon. Solomon is a beautiful writer, one of the best I've read in recent memory. His vine metaphor for depression, in the first chapter alone, is worth the price of admission. But what I admire, especially, is the range of research and the distillation of case histories, statistics, theories, evolving schools of thought, neuroscience, and lyric attention into a thoughtful ethnography.   The book is subtitled, An Atlas of Depression. I like that idea of charting out a shared space, alternately authoritative and practical, a reference and a useful tool. There was a time when I wrote this blog that every thought seemed worthy of disclosure, and without consequence; that the best ideas required no distinction from the least clear. Then, writing was a clear act of cultivation, gathering as quickly as I might reap. The trick now, I think, is to distinguish the borders and not spend too much time in the middle, well-charted spaces. I'd hate to repeat myself, or worse, make a habit of doing so.

I'll close with a minor atlas of recent discoveries, who are at the center of my attention these days. Solomon's book, Chloe Honum's terrific poems, the country artist Jamey Johnson singing a George Jones medley, Andrew Stanbridge's photographs of 770The Tree of Life. I like The Tree of Life for how it addresses inheritance in that seeming contradiction of intense subjectivity and absolute desolation (right down to the infamous 17-minute Big Bang/dinosaur sequence) that is the loss of a loved one. The whole movie resonates with feeling, in all directions. I suppose it came to mind again in that hair-trigger space of calamity and benign neglect that was looking for our son on the block, but it has stayed with me since, and filled me with a great deal of sympathy for how much ranges well beyond control. And yet, it's useful to have an atlas. There is a great deal of agency in precedent. The trick, I suppose, is to not praise too broadly; to narrow and winnow admiration to the most deserving places. With that in mind, here's my last entry, from the English poet, U.A. Fanthorpe:


There is a kind of love called maintenance,

Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it;

Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget

The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;

Which answers letters; which knows the way

The money goes, which deals with dentists

And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,

And postcards to the lonely; which upholds

The permanently rickety elaborate

Structures of living; which is Atlas.

And maintenance is the sensible side of love,

Which knows what time and weather are doing

To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;

Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers

My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps

My suspect edifice upright in the air,

As Atlas did the sky.

--U.A. Fanthorpe (1929-2008)

Friday, January 10, 2014

Sidney "Zait" Raffel

As part of a collaboration to remember my grandfather-in-law, Sidney “Zait" Raffel, I wrote the short piece below. Cait and I had the good fortune to live in Zait’s home during the first three years of our life as a family. Like many, I sure do miss him. The official obituary ran today in the Los Angeles Times.


Sidney “Zait” Raffel, MD, ScD, one of the best and last of a great generation, died on Friday, December 27. He was 102 years old.

A Baltimore native, he came west to California on a Roosevelt Foundation Fellowship in 1935, and never went back. He told everyone who asked that, on his first day in Los Angeles, he came outside to a cool summer evening and fell in love with the state. He froze on the ride north to San Francisco, but warmed to the place soon enough to settle in, marry his best friend’s girlfriend, raise their five daughters, and move in 1955 to the Stanford University campus. His beloved “770,” at the top of the hill, became the family home to four generations of Raffel daughters, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. For half a century, with Yvonne, the great love of his life and first public health nurse to work at Stanford, they presided over a loving, warm, and raucous crowd of friends and family members. Sidney and Yvonne threw fantastic parties year-round, including the annual Thanksgiving celebration, and thirteen family weddings.

Zait was a gifted student, educator, and teacher, and he wasn’t shy to let you know it. He graduated from high school at the age of 15, Johns Hopkins University at 18 (B.A.) and 21 (Sc.D.), and Stanford University, where he joined the faculty at 23, studied medicine, and graduated, already a professor, at 31, with a M.D. During World War II, he trained doctors and nurses. He served as Chair of the Department of Medical Microbiology from 1951 until his retirement in 1976. From 1964-1965, he was acting Dean of the Medical School, during which he named Pasteur Drive and Welch Road, and oversaw the building of the (then) new medical complex. He wrote the comprehensive textbook in his field, Immunity, first published in 1953, with a second edition in 1961, the year he received a Fulbright Fellowship and took his family to Europe. He contributed extensive research to Stanford’s effort to discover the polio vaccine. His great professional regret was that Jonas Salk’s team beat his own to finding it.

Few matched Zait for his quick wit, fondness for a good joke (and, often, pun), love of dark beer (the warmer, the better), and his affection for Walker, Texas Ranger (the best show on television). Upon his retirement in 1976, Zait took up painting. Visitors to 770 marveled at his watercolors, oil paintings, and sketches, many of which lined the walls. Zait’s favorite subject was his beloved Yvonne (“Ami”), and his daughters, Linda, Gail, Polly, Cynthia, and Emily. He would paint them on large and small canvasses alike, working from photographs of their many international journeys. Zait and Ami trotted the globe together, from Salzburg to Egypt, Iran, Israel, the Soviet Union, China, Japan, and her native British Columbia. On the lazy Susan in the middle of his kitchen table, until the day he died, he kept a small oil painting of Ami standing in front of her family’s homestead. Every February, he painted her into a valentine and wrote her a short, funny poem. After she passed, in 2001, he recreated these cards and mailed them to his large, beloved family.

Until a few months ago, he rode his stationary bike at least a mile every day. He worked in his basement woodshop, building ingenious, if idiosyncratic, contraptions that quickly earned knowing eye-rolls from the family. Most famous was “The Barbecue Bullet,” a garden-to-porch pulley-and-bucket system for delivering meat to the grill that almost decapitated his son-in-law. Others included his compost-bin-on-bicycle-wheels, dual-back-scratcher-lotion-applicator, and jello-mold-light-fixtures. Zait never found a broken chair or appliance to which he could not affix an el-bracket, chunk of foam, or piece of Velcro. He had a particular talent for gorilla glue, and little talent, but great gusto, for homemade picture framing.

Zait took great pride in his daughters and their families; his grandchildren; and, his great-grandchildren. They all loved him back. One of my favorite memories was of watching him whirl Walt around the house on his walker, and later, Sam and he doing exercises together in his room. Zait maintained close friendships and mentorships with many of his former students, who visited regularly. This past Christmas, he was in great spirits, and much of his family was with him on the day he died. He will be sorely missed by the many whose lives he touched, always for the better.

(Sidney "Zait" Raffel, 102 years old, with Sam, 18 months, on Christmas Eve 2013.)