My Life in Venn

Today out in my yard I saw a scarlet cardinal sunbathing atop a mass of golden forsythia near a swath of new, emerald grass. It would have been an even more interesting sight had the bird been reclining on its feathery back, wearing shades and sipping a Mai Tai. But this is the Northeast, where birds are traditional.

I cut class tonight for the first time. It was only Spanish, which isn’t for credit. Instead I wrote a report and filed an extension for my taxes and made a to-do list of things I won’t ever get done.

Speaking of which, last week we were submerged in the passive voice — or have you already been told that? The class could have been made more fun had we been exposed to the realm of creative ideas rather than subjected solely to linguistic theory. What further can be said?

Today an e-mail was received by me, sent by my elder daughter. Mothering Magazine is quoted:

Your baby is now beginning to grow his very first hairs. Around this time the baby’s eyes close and won’t open again until the 7th month. Nail beds are beginning to become visible at the ends of the baby’s fingers. The baby’s arms are now long enough that she can grasp one hand in the other.

Continuing the march toward normal proportions, baby’s legs now out-measure his arms. And, finally, all four limbs have functional joints. Your fetus is squirming and wiggling like crazy down in the womb, though you probably can’t feel the movements just yet.

She’s about the size of an orange this week, her ears have migrated to the sides of her head, and her eyes are moving to the front of her face.

Whew, that was lucky; I’m sure glad my ears found their way to the sides, and that my eyes wiggled over toward the middle. Otherwise, it would have been “There goes old Flounder-Face Allison” for me.

I have two interviews set up for Friday — I’m doing the interviewing; sadly, no job interviews yet — that are part of the independent study project I made up for myself. One interview is with a professor at The New School in NYC, a guy who has been building their online community. The other is at a university in Maryland, where digital storytelling is a component of their ESL program. My plan is to explore the intersection of my past lives: radio/first-person narrative/digital storytelling, along with online technology and community, along with English-teaching. It’s quite confusing to puzzle together, but one day I had a sudden, clear and simple picture in my brain of what I want to do. Wanna see?

The other night, going through paperwork in an abortive attempt to make progress in tax preparation, I encountered a letter from Dad. He wrote it on July 4, 2003.

Dear Ginna Girl:

It seems that, in all probability, the parentoids may not be greeting you at the airport as planned due to a last minute appointment with Dr. Smith who will determine why your father’s voice croaks so squeakily. So, before you alter your plans and head back to LaLa land, let me hasten to suggest a reasonable solution. We have a dilapidated 1980 brown Jeep Wagoneer, with which, I believe, you have some familiarity. On the assumption that Brownie’s battery still has energy remaining after sitting in the yard these past months, then we shall deposit said Brownie in the airport parking lot with the keys cleverly hidden on the floor boards below the steering wheel. When you try to start this elderly conveyance, be sure that you pump the gas pedal five or six times before cranking the engine each time. After employing this technique, you can rest comfortably in the knowledge that there’s a good 50 per cent chance of success.

Should Brownie not be willing to meet you two, then try looking for a blue 1972 Jeep Wagoneer with a big dent on the driver’s side and a winch in front. It too may be a bit battery-deficient. Failing all of the above, pray do call a taxi, for which all charges will be cheerfully refunded by your parents.

Won’t it be fun visiting Grandmother’s and Grandfather’s house down on the farm?

Much affection goes forth with this bulletin.

In fact, Molly and I were there to greet them at the house down on the beautiful farm. And the doctor had told them the reason for Dad’s croaky voice: Lou Gehrig’s disease.

I’ll bet you I’ve told you this story a thousand times. But man, you wouldn’t believe how stoic Mom and Dad were. Or how stoic Molly and I were, for that matter. My family doesn’t wail — not in front of others, anyhow. The four of us were in shock.

The day before, my team and I had won second place in the North American Irish Dance Championships in Nashville. I put my medal around Dad’s neck. It didn’t take me more than an hour or so to convince myself that this was no death sentence. We’d figure out how Dad could stay active at least a couple years more.

He knew better. He was dead in under four months. Can’t you tell just from reading that silly letter why I miss him so much, and why I fell apart when I discovered it?

He’d be so cranky at me for making all this fuss over him now. “For crying out loud. Just let me go, Baaa-Face. I’m dead, don’cha know!” He would be so proud of my doing this master’s program. Don’t you think, Maw?

I’m glad I’ve still got my Small to kick around — a cute little source of moral and other support while I bash my way through the academic thicket. She’s under strict orders not to die, and I know she’ll obey, under penalty of…

I asked Eleni the other day: if you have a boy, would you name it after my daddy? In vintage Eleni fashion, she replied, “We already haaaave a Peter in the family. And I’ve never liked the name frankly — in the interest of full disclosure.” She flunked Subtlety & Tact in the Ginna School of Delaware Manners. I love her anyway.