At a distant uncle's funeral in winter the sun peeked through the clouds,
making the frozen branches sparkle, just as his coffin was lowered into the
ground. Pathetic, perhaps, but certainly moving.
Like your piece, David. Thanks for it.
Torgeir Fjeld
Poland
https://www.torgeirfjeld.com
man. 17. okt. 2022, 00:20 skrev david ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx>:
What little I know of baseball comes from sources I can count on the
fingers on one hand: first, Stephen Straker, who was such a Yankees fan he
had seats on his front porch, bought when they moved to a new stadium. We
were once together on a research trip in Wyoming which had to be
interrupted for the World Series. The second source of information was
someone else from the great state of New York, my father-in-law. I should
know which of the New York teams he supported, but I don’t recall. I do
remember that he went to Queens College and that my mother-in-law went to
Brooklyn, so it’s possible they followed the Dodgers.
I knew him as a Padres fan, with the cap and season tickets. I went to a
couple of games with him.
The Padres beat the Dodgers last night, in the hours after his memorial
service and so now head to the NCLS. It was a big deal in San Diego, less
of a big deal in the living room where we gathered around the piano and
sang some of Marty’s favorite songs. The memorial service was very well
done. L’s cousin D played a recording of the family singing, with Soprano
taking the first verse, so on down the vocal range. Marty was a bass, so
we knew what was coming, but it was still a shock to hear him singing at
his own funeral. And marvelous.
I asked a number of those who gathered whether the pathetic fallacy was a
concept known to them. Since it wasn’t, I’ll explain that it was captured
in action in San Diego. We left bright sunshine in Oregon and arrived to
overcast skies and then rain. The Pathetic fallacy refers to those moments
in a movie or work of literature when the weather acts in accord with the
characters’ feelings: stormy feelings, stormy skies. I used to tell
students it doesn’t happen in real life, but Southern California has had
several days of cloud and rain.
I’ve attended memorial servgices in bright sunshine. Not this one, which
felt very right.
Then was, of course, shredding. So much of our lives ends up shredded,
recycled, given to thrifts, some even dumped. Occasionally there are
questions that seem hard to resolve under the circs. Would we, with our
house overstuffed with books, like a volume on the Rodin museum in Paris?
On the one hand, L. and I were there once; on the other… am I going to look
at or read this book? I took the Chagall one; I have been interested in
Chagall this year. Then I caved and took not only the Rodin but a slim
volume of Cartier Bresson. Also a bottle of banana liqueur from Tahiti.
Why not?
The most familiar souvenir from my youth? Glass paperweights. People who
went to Scotland had to decide whether they needed glass from Caithness. As
a child I was taken with the colours, but I couldn’t afford one and my
parents didn’t see the need, winds not being common inside our house and
paperwork not being, generally an activity one did outdoors.
This time I took a Scottish one and one from France, both blue.
How about shoes? My father- in- law’s head was mighty small by my
standards— which are not normal—and his chest size and mine were not the
same. But his feet were not a lot bigger than mine. I can’t fill the
shoes, but I might wear a pair. Once that decision was made a pair of
Eccos proved ideal for protecting the paperweights. The spare suitcase we
brought down did not return empty.
I was sitting alone in the garden, enjoying the quiet and the view, and
here came Mimo to ask why there are no “ums” in the Bible.
“You know about the Bible now?”
Mimo, “Oh yes. When I heard that it was the word of gods, I thought maybe
it would be good to investigate.”
“Word of *God*. The whole point of monotheism is that there’s only one
God, with a capital G.”
Mimo, “I’m told you’re not in this volume.”
“Recorded before my time.”
Mimo, “They say it barely mentions chickens, but no one seems to know what
we might have done to annoy the one god. And, there’s not single um. Who
speaks like that? No um; no er?”
“No err for sure, with two r’s; that’s a given.”
Mimo, “Seems odd.”
“ou’ve access to wiser theological experts than I’d find around here. Try
the Venerable Bede.”
Mimo, “You say ‘here.’ Where’s here?”
“San Diego.”
Mimo, “Where the Padres play? Maybe I could ask them about ums?”
“What do you know about Padres?”
Mimo, “Gods follow them religiously, is what I hear hereabouts.”
“Well then, have at them; just the kind of source you need. Catch them
after the game.”
Mimo, “Game?"
They’ve already repainted the room where M was, which is both
understandable and a bit of a shock. It’s a lovely color, a warm grey, like
the skies we flew back through. And now we’ve landed back in sunny
Portland.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
