[lit-ideas] Re: Soup Story
- From: Andy Amago <aamago@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx, lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Tue, 17 Aug 2004 21:16:24 -0400 (GMT-04:00)
-----Original Message-----
From: Ursula Stange <Ursula@xxxxxxxxxx>
Sent: Aug 17, 2004 9:01 PM
To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: Soup Story
You must miss him very much. One hopes to live ones life so as to
deserve such fond remembrances.
A.A. What?! And give your life meaning? Purpose? Does Delia know about this?
But it has to happen in the
interstices. If the scaffolding shows, the game is up.
Thanks for the charming inside view.
Ursula
A.A. I didn't know Stephen, but if it were me, I would have thought the story
about the car funnier, or more moving (or not moving, as in this case) than the
tribute. But to each his own.
Andy Amago
David Ritchie wrote:
>I have been catching up on how old you all are, the odd habits of Robert
>Paul's rocks, what beautiful babies your relatives produce. I now offer a
>story.
>
>Stephen would have been appalled at the outset. The most he carried
>personally when traveling in his VW Eurovan-- a vehicle that was designed to
>carry, as they say in sales nowadays, up to "everything and more"-- was a
>spare pair of trousers, an overshirt, wellies with a full archeology of mud
>on them, a small library, tapes of Alasdair MacIntyre or Shelby Foote. So
>if there were already a grave--Stephen's ashes are now on their way to
>Amherst, MA, where his parents lie--when he saw how, with my trusty Rieker
>anti-stress sandals, one daughter, several bags, tennis rackets, bagpipes,
>blue bottles of water, snacks, sailing shorts, video camera, foamy practice
>dance floor, bon bons, gifts, I loaded the old grey SAAB for the Stephen
>Straker Memorial Roadtrip... he surely would be fulminating in it, stirring
>up the earth with wild gestures.
>
>We figured we'd thought of everything, but of course we err'd; we forgot to
>appease the car gods--I'm told the drill is to offer them your first born
>goat. We were pretty much fine until we left the city for the second time.
>Reaching Seattle safely, we had headed for Emily's choice of what to see,
>and spent a fine long hour wandering among market stalls and cops on horses.
>Emily bought an icy drink from the very first Starbucks; I got a Pike's beer
>at the brewery. We ate spicy mussels, fresh from the bay.
>
>Then the SAAB started as usual and slipped into gear as usual, but the
>engine revved wildly and we went nowhere. "Funny," I thought in my Peter
>Cook voice, "funny." Eventually we got going, and once on the freeway, we
>made good progress, traveling towards Monroe, where a cheap room waited.
>
>Still O.K., we checked in and tooka dip in the jacuzzi, before beds. The
>morning plan, after bomplimentary bontinental breakfast, was that Emily
>would practice dance while I drove across to a "Foreign Car Repair" place I
>could see from our best Best Western window. In the car park or parking
>lot, the car balked like a shy horse, protesting with lots more unnecessary
>revving. "Funny..."
>
>Foreign Car Repair checked the topped up fluid, which was now black, and
>sent me back across the highway to Greek Chorus Transmissions. Everyone
>there came out of the shop to discuss what kind of gearing a SAAB has, and
>whether the engine normally comes out of the top, or the transmission just
>drops out of the bottom. Someone called the dealer in Seattle, who said that
>it didn't matter anyway... because no one on the whole West Coast has a
>replacement.
>
>The nearest second opinion was in Everett, about twenty miles away. To the
>Chorus', "Five miles is as much as she'll do," we limped off, counting each
>foot under tire a distance not slogged. In E. the news turned terminal.
>Even their experts said the gears were cooked, would cost two thousand
>dollars or more to rebuild...if anyone could find or make parts. "Habitat
>for Humanity" got what was left of my faithful old car.
>
>In a rented Ford, with much stuff transferred and re-packed, we continued
>north to Stephen's memorial service where a hundred and fifty colleagues
>gathered. I read a piece about our busman's holidays, and then the revised
>wake poem. Friends from first grade and high school spoke of his fun;
>colleagues, of his teaching. Family spoke wonderfully. Would that we could
>all be so honored. Music, food, booze helped distract from the fact that
>the Faculty Club was impossibly hot, too hot for pipes. I tried to play
>outside, but only later, when it was cooler, miraculously managed "Amazing
>Grace."
>
>Stephen liked the joke about the prostitute who goes to old people's home
>and offers folk "Super sex." He would wave feebly and say, in the guise of
>the man in the joke, "I'll have the soup." Now I've found out what happens
>after that joke finishes. It turns out that the old man, Stephen and my
>SAAB 9000 all finally end up on a desert island, with a rural Greek Chorus
>and a slipping transmission. Along comes this big shaggy dog...
>
>David Ritchie
>Portland, Oregon
>
>
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>
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