The Circle, Unbroken

This shot was taken on board Pelagic, way back in our home port of Kodiak.  That's my grandfather on the left.  He and my parents and sister were in Kodiak to meet Elias.

My grandfather and I were close from the moment we met in the Detroit airport, when I was an infant on my first trip to the U.S.  An established bit of family lore has to do with the way I immediately took to him in the airport, and how my grandmother had to drive home while my grandfather held me, since I cried in anyone else's lap.  A complementary bit of family lore was established in our old house in Kodiak (above) when Elias cooed and smiled at my granddad with a display of obvious affection that seemed improbable from a six-week old.


Three months ago my granddad asked me on the phone what we were planning on naming the new baby.


-I've got an idea, he said.  Why don't you name him after your grandfather Elmer?  He paused a second before he answered his own question - I wouldn't name a dog Elmer!  He laughed and laughed at the joke, then dissolved into a coughing fit that had me fearing for his 94-year-old heart.


There was a story that we always told each other about the time that he gave twenty-year-old me a ride out to the highway in Colorado.  I was excited at the hitchhike to Alaska ahead of me, and just barely aware of how tough it was for my grandpa to drop me off on the side of the road.  Before he drove away he said, hey, you don't have a hat!   And then he gave me the one he was wearing.  I wore that hat for years, until it was in ribbons, and I still have the remains of it in storage back in the States.

And there's the more recent story about the time Alisa and I were eating dinner with my grandparents.  Alisa, making conversation, asked Elmer what sort of gun would make a good deer rifle for her.  He didn't answer, just excused himself from the table and came back a few minutes later with a rifle.  To people who get into that sort of thing, it was a very special gun: a pre-'64 Winchester Model 70 6.5x55mm.  More important, it was a rifle that was light to carry, didn't kick much, and could shoot accurately over the long distances that you want to shoot if you hunt deer in the mountains of Kodiak.  In other words, the perfect deer gun for Alisa.  He handed it to her, to keep, and it was her deer rifle from that moment until we went sailing.

~~~

My granddad died last week.  

My parents, who spent a good bit of their time in recent years looking after him, found themselves in the strange position of being here in Tasmania, half a world away, when his end came.

~~~

If you make up stories to answer unanswerable questions, or if you accept answers to unanswerable questions from your own tradition, or from other peoples' traditions, then you are religious.  If you don't do those things, then you are not religious, and you're left to live with the unanswerables and imponderables.

My granddad's death came less than two months after Eric was born.  The day that Elias was born, Alisa's wonderful uncle Ray died.  

These sorts of matched events don't answer the unanswerable.  But I do suspect that tell us a fair bit of what we need to know.

Adrift

This is the state of Pelagic's interior lately - complete disarray as I pursue the much-anticipated day when she will be on the market, with all trace of our family life removed, anonymous and sparkling.

This scene is weirdly similar to the disorder that attended various stages of preparation for our trip across the Pacific.  The days are short this time of year in Hobart.  When it's getting dark at five o'clock my memories of all the work that went into preparing to live on Pelagic blend with the present work of preparing to leave Pelagic, and I find myself brooding on the futility of things...

In the light of day, though, Alisa and I are cheered by one thought: it's time to find the next boat!

Our very wonderful housesit overlooking Kingston Beach ends in two and a half months, and we're starting to feel the pressure to find new accommodation for our young family.

-Without a boat, says Alisa, we're just homeless.

Elmer Mallon

My mother’s father was born in 1915.  This picture of him was taken some time in the 1930s.  It’s a hand-tinted black and white print.  And this is him last week: 

A week before this picture was taken he came very close to dying.

-Just think about whether you want to see him again, Alisa said.  I’ll be fine here.

For a few days I called back to the States to get updates on his condition and then I booked a ticket from Hobart to Cleveland with 20 hours advance notice.  I chopped enough kindling to last for a week and I left Alisa to look after Elias and Eric.

Once I was back in the States I spent most of my time in the nursing home, giving a short break to my parents who have been providing end of life care to my mom's parents for years. 

My grandfather was very tired.  But he talked for hours.  I let the conversation build and drift at his pace.  He was very sharp, very much the same person who I've known for my whole life.  I enjoyed the easy companionship of this man who I know as well I possibly could, someone who is mysterious to me in very few ways.

-It’s a good life, he told me.  And I say it is a good life, not it has been a good life.  Even with my troubles in the last few years, it’s a good life.

-And later: I want to live life.  I want to go right up to life and touch it and see it.  And I don’t want these people [at the nursing home] telling me don’t do this and you have to do that.

He told me the hunting stories that I have known all my life, stories that have grown comfortable through repeated retelling, like old leather gloves that have molded to the shape of your hands.  For hours he told me stories about people in our family who I never knew.  One night my sister and I drank beers in his room and he told us stories all the way until eleven o’clock. 

-You can ask me anything you want, he said.  I’ll try to answer you.

The next day I asked his advice about raising children and he told me what he knew.  He told me about the mistakes that he still bitterly regretted, a half century after the fact.

After a week I said goodbye.  When someone is 94 years old you have already gotten used to the idea that their life is nearly over.  So saying goodbye this time was not overwhelming in the 'I'll never see you again' sort of way.  But the chance to stand in the courtyard of the nursing home and hug him and to look in his eyes while he was completely coherent and present and very much still himself was a pleasure that I will remember for a very long time.