{"id":262,"date":"2021-02-05T09:05:40","date_gmt":"2021-02-05T14:05:40","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/english.sxu.edu\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/?p=262"},"modified":"2025-02-19T07:22:54","modified_gmt":"2025-02-19T13:22:54","slug":"february-4-2021","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/bonadonna.org\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/archives\/262","title":{"rendered":"The Day Before February 5 [2021]"},"content":{"rendered":"

[Note:<\/strong> \u00a0This entry is an example of two SSW sessions written during workshop with my freshman writing class at the start of Spring Semester, 2021. \u00a0SSW stands for “silent sustained writing,” a weekly practice of 40-minute writing sessions conducted throughout the semester where the entire class, including the instructor, “looks at the world as a writer,” selects genres and topics of the author’s interest, and writes. \u00a0The weekly sessions build into a “writer’s notebook,” that explores what Nancie Atwell calls an author’s “writing territories,” and that approaches the task of “teaching” writing through a process of “cultivation” of a writer’s identity, rather than through specific instruction in teacher-chosen skills. \u00a0Early in each semester, I try to model how the process works for me–and how it has evolved for me as a writer over time. \u00a0It’s about writing as a way of being<\/em>, rather than something learned, mastered, and checked off….]<\/p>\n

\n

February 4, 2021<\/strong><\/p>\n

Clearly, this notebook project is inseparable from my grieving process for Ang, which now approaches that magical mark of 10 years, and the restarting of living. At least my notebook in recent spring semesters has functioned this way. Last year, my first ENGL 120 SSW entry was on Ang\u2019s birthday (January 23), and this year, we\u2019re five days later, and just about dead center between the January 23-February 5 nadir of the year for me. And by a moment of grace the past weekend, I was given a story to write about by Ang\u2019s brother, Terry.<\/p>\n

Terry deserves, as do all my kids, his own writing notebook. He\u2019s been impressing me so much this past year, as he wrote both a book (A Wonderful Waste of Time<\/em><\/a>) and an eleven-part pretty massive podcast called \u201cChicago\u2019s Civil War<\/a>\u201d\u2014a documentary on a little-known Chicago treasure, the baseball city-series between the Cubs and Sox that ran from the early 1900s to 1940s. We had Terry over for dinner on Saturday the 23rd<\/sup>, when we celebrated Ang\u2019s birthday, and he surprised me\u2014with something I knew, but had forgotten. He told the story so well, it made me laugh and cry\u2014and appreciate in his telling and his memory, just how present Ang is to him. Ang\u2019s spirit is there, and in different ways, in each family member\u2019s little and big stories.<\/p>\n

Terry actually told us the story in the morning of Ang\u2019s birthday, when Loretta and I drove over to his apartment to finally deliver his Christmas present, a brand new, leather recliner. Terry needed some moving help to clear space in his apartment. So he and I first had to throw out his very junky blue reclining chair. We carried it to his alley, and looked at it there, and then he sat in it, almost as though to say goodbye, almost as though this were all wrong\u2014this throwing away of that chair that had been in the family since 2000.<\/p>\n

Terry, as always, knew the exact date we had gotten the blue recliner. He sat in the chair, and rocked, and we wondered if this would be the last time he or anyone else would sit in it. The weather was nice for January 23rd, with a bright sun, and Terry began his story. It just seemed so right to see him there, in his chair in the alley, with the sun on his face telling the story of Adriana\u2019s chairs\u2014plural, for they started out as two chairs in 2000. I began to wonder if Loretta and I made a mistake in buying him a new recliner for Christmas. Before we delivered it to his apartment, we set it up in our living room, and kept it there for the four weeks between Christmas and Ang\u2019s birthday. And we grew to like it there. We teased him that he wasn\u2019t going to get it\u2014that it seemed to fit our house pretty well. Well, looking at Terry, telling his story in his old chair in the alley in the sun\u2014led me to think, maybe we should have just let well-enough alone, and kept the new chair at our house for Terry to use when he came over, and for him to just hold onto Adriana\u2019s blue chair\u2026<\/p>\n

Adriana was a nurse, a co-worker of Loretta\u2019s at NMH. Back in 2000, she offered Loretta two blue rocking recliners that were in really good shape. They were swivel recliners (an important detail to get the full effect of what follows). Adriana had to move cross-country, and so she had to unload lots of possessions. We had a big old Chevy Astro van with removable bench seats, so I said, \u201cSure, I\u2019ll pick up the chairs.\u201d Thankfully, I could enlist Terry, Age 12, just the right age to be of real use in moving furniture. Terry recalled every detail of the ride to Adriana\u2019s northside condo on that morning 21 years ago. \u201cIt was a Monday,\u201d Terry said. He commented that the ride to<\/em> Adriana\u2019s was uneventful\u2014because he had a seat in the van\u2014the passenger side seat in front. However, his seat was not guaranteed for all the driving we had to do that day. Since the day of the pickup was a Monday, it was my day to pick up my mother, Terry\u2019s grandmother, from her afternoon dialysis treatment. So, Terry and I were, first, an efficient moving team, and then a ride share. And then we had one more stop, even after dropping Grandma off.<\/p>\n

We got to Adriana\u2019s condo, made pleasant small talk, and loaded the two chairs into the van, upright, as though they were Captain Kirk\u2019s command chairs from which to control the fate of the universe with placid ease and resolve. They took up the whole back of the van, so there was no question we made the right choice in removing both benches.<\/p>\n

Off we went to Howard and Ridge on the north side to pick up my mom. And here\u2019s where Terry\u2019s storytelling kicks into another gear. With Grandma in the car, he couldn\u2019t sit up front. So the only place for him to go was in the back, and the only place to sit was in one of the recliners. His description of that trip to Grandma\u2019s house from dialysis had all the joy and terror of a 12-year-old driving home in a bouncing van, in a recliner, no seatbelt; it was priceless. It was one of those new, weird experiences that becomes memorable when one is at that threshold age. To me, I listened in a mixture of delight and horror at my decision to let him travel in such a dangerous way. I think back now on how I tried to be efficient\u2014pick up chairs, use son\u2019s help, pick up Grandma\u2014and, last on the list, pick up Ang who, in his summer before high school, was at his first cross country practice.<\/p>\n

Part of the delight of Terry\u2019s story was the memory of my mother\u2019s reaction upon her first realizing the situation. She was like, \u201cOh,\u201d and she nodded and got in. That \u201cOh\u201d spoke of an accepting disposition of the chaos of \u201clife with people\u201d\u2014of a regular ride home with a reckless\/responsible son she trusted; who was in the midst of that busy, insane time of raising numerous children, some small; who himself was raised by Italian, voluble, chaotic parents. She said \u201cOh\u201d acceptingly, got in, and began talking.<\/p>\n

There may have been a comment from her, or even a judgment, but all I remember was the typical, water-off-a-duck\u2019s back, opposite of non-plussed reaction of my mother to the antics of, well, just about everyone about her. In her later years, my mother was serene. Accepting, not pushing back. She had been through it\u2014whatever \u201cit\u201d was\u2014the Depression, WWII, emigration and immigration, a difficult marriage, five kids, widowhood\u2014and at the end she exuded grace and gratitude for all she had\u2014her kids, her grandkids, and her health\u2014such as it was. Terry\u2019s story didn\u2019t delve into all that feeling, but his story, as my kids\u2019 stories so often do, brought the memory of the \u201cOh,\u201d back to me. I heard it. Truth be told, she might not have said \u201cOh\u201d that way that time\u2014but it was her signature gesture and attitude in that last, blessed phase of her life, about 4 years\u2019 worth of widowhood and weekly, shared pickups and drop-offs for dialysis. In telling the story in the alley, Terry was activating so many memories of our family\u2014my role as beleaguered parent\/son, his role of a 12-year old mover\/adventurist, and Ang\u2019s role as a cross country novice that summer before high school, dutifully taking on a summer activity, not necessarily the one of his choice, but something that kept him focused and purposeful\u2014a responsible oldest child transitioning to a new phase in his life.<\/p>\n

What Terry did tell about Grandma was the way she invited us in when we reached her home, and told us that she had some leftover pizza from the night before. \u201cDid we want any of it?\u201d Of course! So we ate and talked and soon it was time to embark once again on our multi-pronged mission of the day: Leg 3 of our<\/em> cross country extravaganza, driving to Fenwick to pick up Ang from that first cross country practice, that, by now, had ended quite some time ago.<\/p>\n

I think back now, as I must have thought then: it all made sense: Fenwick was on the way home from Grandma\u2019s house, so why wouldn\u2019t<\/em> we plan it this way? As we were leaving, my mother said, \u201cDo you want to take the rest of the pizza with you?\u201d Of course! This was before the time when Gen would develop the theory of the \u201cpizza clock\u201d and how it resets (or doesn\u2019t need to). But we knew even then, you just don\u2019t say no to a box of pizza you could take home with you.<\/p>\n

The ride to Fenwick was uneventful. Terry was back in the front seat, in a seatbelt, and we were just two moving guys driving home, with a short stop to pick up Ang. Ang needed<\/em> to be picked up, and not just for transportation. His practice was a rough one. While he was never in horrible shape physically, he was not especially conditioned for long distance running either. This was Ang\u2019s introduction to the Fenwick way, the competitive, \u201cwe\u2019re distinctive,\u201d we\u2019re special kind of aura of that proud institution. So of course, a first workout was going to be \u2026 challenging to the point of being brutal, and brutal it was.<\/p>\n

Here\u2019s where we need Terry\u2019s deadpan narrative style. He painted a picture of Ang\u2019s appearance or mood or state at that time. First, Ang wasn\u2019t all that enthused about having to do an activity\u2014any activity\u2014that summer. But as the oldest child, he often got, as is common, the rawest deal in \u201crequirements,\u201d strictness, and toeing the line. He had to get a job in high school, whereas the younger ones didn\u2019t. He had to run errands and give up his time for various family responsibilities. He had to organize his pursuits around the family\u2019s schedule in ways not so focused on in later years. And on it went. So Ang was a little dispirited to \u201chave to\u201d go to cross country in the first place. And on this day, as Terry told it, there were so many compounding factors: the hot temperature, the workout, the lateness of our arrival, to name a few. And so, we arrived to see a completely defeated new member of the Fenwick community\u2014wilted and annoyed, slouching to the car.<\/p>\n

Terry got out to greet him. He told him, \u201cAng, there\u2019s no place for you since the back is filled.\u201d<\/p>\n

Pause. Then with the flair of a game show host, he opened the side van door with outstretched hand. And there it was, positioned just right: a reclining chair and a box of pizza waiting for him. And it was one of those moments \u2026 when the harp plays, the slant of light glistens, the hand of God touches you, and salvation opens up before you.<\/p>\n

I remember such moments with Ang when there\u2019s a turn: things are going so bad, but then not so much anymore. And then the storytelling starts happening (the \u201cbest of all breathing,\u201d Faulkner called it), and the smiles start coming, and all the \u201cwhat happened before\u201d is just part of the setup of the joy and fulfillment that will become a story, years later, told by a guy in the alley with the sun in his face, saying goodbye to a worn-out, over-used recliner.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s that. But there\u2019s also Angelo\u2019s way: the way things would work out for him up until the very end. All of that sweat and responsibility and grousing led to a comfortable chair and a pizza. Like the man chased by tigers in Kahn\u2019s story <\/a>(another family go-to meme), Ang found the strawberry on the mountainside, and \u201cit was the sweetest tasting strawberry he ever had.\u201d Angelo, and I bless him for this, could turn on a dime, and let go of a bad moment and lean into the new thing that was happening and inviting a smile and a different conversation. And Terry\u2019s reaction to it was something of a unique possession of his alone (for it was completely lost to me till he told the story and brought it, and my mother\u2019s \u201cOh,\u201d back to me). Terry has held on and helped us remember, and on February 4, I couldn\u2019t be more grateful to both sons, to all my children, to Loretta, as we close off, this very day and in SSW, our first ten years of life after\u2014and still with\u2014Ang.<\/p>\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Note: \u00a0This entry is an example of two SSW sessions written during workshop with my freshman writing class at the start of Spring Semester, 2021. \u00a0SSW stands for “silent sustained writing,” a weekly practice of 40-minute writing sessions conducted throughout the semester where the entire class, including the instructor, “looks at the world as a … Continue reading The Day Before February 5 [2021]<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[15,16],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-262","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-ang","category-ssw"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bonadonna.org\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/262","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bonadonna.org\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bonadonna.org\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bonadonna.org\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bonadonna.org\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=262"}],"version-history":[{"count":15,"href":"https:\/\/bonadonna.org\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/262\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1301,"href":"https:\/\/bonadonna.org\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/262\/revisions\/1301"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bonadonna.org\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=262"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bonadonna.org\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=262"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bonadonna.org\/sites\/wordpress\/bonadonna\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=262"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}