Category Archives: Family

It’s difficult to get one four-year-old to sit still, but when you have two, it’s almost impossible. Thankfully a little bribing with an additional birthday present worked wonders, and I managed to get these shots. (Uncles can do the bribing thing. They may not respect me for it later, but they can take a number and join the line.)

After their birthday dinner we had some additional fun in the living room. It’s always more fun to exit the adult table early and squeeze out a few more hours of play before bedtime. I remember that from my stint as a four-year-old. Some things get passed on from generation to generation.

A short time ago we celebrated the fourth birthdays of my niece and nephew ~ Emi and Noah. Here are some shots from that fun family weekend. They speak more eloquently than anything I could muster, and the twins are already developing voices of their own. (Talk to the hand.)

Family friends Elaine and Tony are due to see our new kitchen for the first time since returning from Florida a couple of weeks ago. They are always a bright presence in our lives, and especially in our home. Since they head down to Florida for the winter, if they’re here it means that spring and summer are on the way. This Saturday we’ll be hosting them and my parents, and I can’t wait.

I can almost smell the blown-out candles now. That’s always been the scent of happiness – signifying the end of a special meal with family or friends. As a child, it meant we just had an event that merited candle-light and dining-room settings. The kitchen would be filled with the bustling of dishes being rinsed and loaded, and the banter and laughter of family. My brother and I would spy from other rooms, darker rooms where we could disappear as kids, watching and playing and avoiding the adults as much as we were fascinated by them.

To this day, the smell of a blown-out candle inspires a giddy little thrill. Mostly, it reminds me of my Uncle Roberto, who would often be present at those rare evenings when we brought out the fine china and assembled in the formal dining room. (Usually we ate around the small kitchen table.) Dinner was a chance to listen in to adult talk, and to occasionally hear a conversation in Tagalog – a rare treat for us – but really it was just a waiting period before slipping under the table and ultimately escaping between the cherry legs of chairs. Sometimes we thought the adults didn’t notice us, sometimes we knew they did, sometimes we’d get yelled at, and sometimes we got out without reprimand. It was a tenuous, tacit agreement between us kids and the adults, strained at times, but not wholly without fun and childish amusement.

These days we have a different kind of fun, and my niece and nephew are the ones who hide under the table. I’m the adult Uncle, more concerned with grown-up conversation than disappearing into the imagined world of a kid, but every now and then I’ll excuse myself, answering the pleas of Noah or Emi to play chase, and suddenly I’ll be back three decades ago.

The first sign was disturbing: “Socks must be worn at all times.” Where in the hell were we headed, I wondered with sudden trepidation. Upon opening the doors to the Tree Paad (I don’t understand, or want to understand, the additional ‘A’ in the name) I was greeted with the unmistakable odor of, well, socks. The second thing that hit me was the noise. The noise, noise, NOISE!!! Fighting such decidedly Grinch-like feelings, I took a deep breath of socks and questionable pizza, and headed into the swirling vortex of children.

Packs of kids roamed the expansive fluorescent-lit space like roving bands of wild animals. Shouts and screams and flashing lights surrounded me. It was like ‘The Lord of the Flies’ without the order and structure. I honestly didn’t realize that many children actually existed in the world.

As I was about to settle into a sarcastic revelry and cutting social commentary, I walked over to the bottom of the slides, where Emi and Noah were playing with their cousins. Kids were flying out onto the safety mats, giggling and running back up to do it again. Suddenly, I remembered what it was like to be a kid at a birthday party – the initial shyness and slow indoctrination into the social scene, then the relaxing into the event, and finally the enjoyment and fun and adventure.

Both Emi and Noah were excited and talking with their friends, and then everyone bounced around in a bouncy house before convening in a room for pizza and cake.

As they blew out the candles on their fourth birthday cakes, the magic of childhood drifted across the room on a cloud of smoke.

I may not be the best brother in certain aspects, but one thing I do well is give some great gifts. I’m talking about the metallic cock I gave him for Christmas (a kitchen chicken decoration, you sick fucks), the peeing boy who pulled his pants down and shot water (like the kind you see at hibachi tables for show), or some of my Madonna LPs for his record collection. This year, however, I went a little deeper.

It turns out that my brother is into Tibetan art, and actually visited my favorite Tibetan store in Harvard Square a few months ago. At that time, he was taught about the Tibetan prayer bowl – a hand-made copper bowl, heavy and designed to produce a tone perfect for meditation. The last time I was in Boston, I made up my mind to find one for his birthday present.

These prayer bowls are not inexpensive, but their hand-made and unique nature makes them worthy of such a price, so I went to the Tibetan store on the Boston side of the Charles River and found this one. I’d been there a number of times – it’s toward the end of Charles Street, and down a few steps, hidden away as if saving itself for those who are really looking.

Near the back of the store were a few shelves that held the Tibetan prayer bowls. I tried a few before settling on this one, which called to me with its simple, clear tone, and smaller shape. The kind woman at the store moved its wooden stick around the rim, and it sang the sweetest, calmest song. She struck its side, and the sound of peace overrode whatever else was happening in my head and outside on the street.

She smiled and said it had a nice sound, then asked me what color tissue paper I would like to include with it, as I’d indicated it was a gift. I chose blue and a coppery red, and then found a few Tibetan prayer flags to include with it, and a hanging tapestry, all of which would fit into the attic at my parents’ house that he had re-decorated.

It seems my brother and I have more in common than we sometimes realize. I was about to explain how the lady at the store managed to elicit those dulcet sounds, but he said that he already had a lesson by the man in the Cambridge store (the same one who once taught me how to tie a scarf for maximum warmth), and this man had spoken about meditation, made him close his eyes, and even placed a cape on his back. If you know my brother, you know how strange that sounds – and even if you don’t, it sounds a little odd, but in the best possible way. Perhaps he should be instructing me.

Here’s wishing my brother Paul a very Happy Birthday. (He doesn’t read this site so I’ll do it in person another day and not make a huge deal about it here.) In so many ways, we are complete opposites, but after almost four decades of learning to accept each other, we’ve made a sort of peace with that and become friends. Of late, that was largely helped by his children (my niece and nephew) who have inadvertently worked to heal some old wounds in the entire family. I don’t talk much about such things – I hint and shade and offer analogies, but I’m not ready to call anyone out just yet. Besides, life is much better when one learns to ask for forgiveness, and learns to forgive.

My brother and I share what is probably a typical relationship between siblings. We have had our share of fun interactions, some moving movie nights, and a few less-than-fun knock-down-drag-out fights, but for the most part we love each other like only brothers can. There is no one else on earth who has shared the almost-exact-same upbringing. A year and a half apart  in age doesn’t leave much time for difference either, so we know each other very well.

Happy Birthday Powie!!

No matter what else may be going on in my life, there are two people who always make it all better, and they’re only three years old: my niece and nephew. Emi and Noah came to visit this past weekend, bringing light, laughter, and love into our home. After a lunch of curry meatballs and rice noodles (a twist on spaghetti and meatballs), they asked to go downstairs and play. There is a pool table and television, along with an expansive length of carpet fit for chasing and running the entire length of the house. After making a few rounds through the space, Uncle Al plopped down on the couch and turned on the lazy babysitter, searching for a movie fit for the three-year-old set.

‘Harriet the Spy’ was a possibility, ‘Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets’ was nixed, and ‘Ice Age’ was requested but never found. We settled briefly on ‘Legend’ per the twins’ request – which would have terrified me as a child (I still have nightmares of ‘The Dark Crystal’) but in the end what was on television mattered less than the three of us cuddling on the couch.

Emi fussed with the heavy blanket and said, ‘Let’s get closer together,’ pulling the blanket up to her chin. Noah giggled and burrowed closer to his sister. I sat there, slightly puzzled at how such a simple gesture – just being close to someone – could be so comforting for a child. And for whatever reason, tears came suddenly and unexpectedly to my eyes. It had been so long since someone wanted to be close to me.

I thought of how safe it felt. Maybe this was why people loved children so much – they made them feel safer, brought them back to the protective cocoon of childhood.

The notion of watching G-rated movies with a couple of kids may be an average night for most families, but for me it was a novelty, a moment of respite from the darkness of so much of adult life. With other things in flux and in danger, the act of cuddling on the couch is a thing of surety. There are few things in this life of which we can be certain, and they seem to be dwindling the older I get, but of this tiny pocket of time I could be assured.

As their Dad made motions for them to leave, Emi asked if they could stay longer.

“How long?” my brother asked.

She thought about it for a second then said, “Two hours!”

They settled on five more minutes.

It was the best five minutes I’ve had in a long time.

A change in the wind, one that arrived just before Thanksgiving, had taken a hold of me. Part of it was giving into the darkness, but there was some other influence I felt. It was not the usual demons that I could battle, the familiar ones I knew, but something other, an antagonistic energy that I’m only just now beginning to see, perhaps coming from within my own house. It felt like I was under attack, but I couldn’t see that then, so I acted out.

I’m a very intuitive person, but sometimes it takes me a while to see larger arcs at work, and to figure out how they are affecting me and why. I’m also quite sensitive (scoff if you must, it’s true) to such subtle pressures, and in the same way a tiny sliver can wreak havoc with an entire body, the slightest ruffle in my relationships with others can result in the biggest kerfuffle. Looking back, I see things now, and only with that awareness can I begin to protect myself.

There will always be darkness at work in the world, but there is goodness too, and if you lead a decent life I believe there are certain protections afforded you to counter any ill-will. After several disturbing dreams, I felt like a couple of protective angels in the form of Andy’s Mom and my grandmother have arrived to intercede and to protect me, no matter how hard some inevitable choices may end up being. First was a dream I had of the former, and second was this feeling I had of the latter.

A waltz was playing on the classical station that Andy always has on in the living room. My ears perked up a bit, recognizing the tune but not immediately placing it, not until a memory comes floating back to me, of my brother and I fitting snugly on my grandmother’s single bed as she sat in a wooden rocking chair, reading to us or regaling us with tales of Peter Rabbit or Greta Garbo (I was equally enthralled by both.) We’d play card games (Bust the Farmer or Snatch the Bundle) on the bed before our parents made us go to sleep, and sometimes we’d wind up the lacquered music box clock adorned with pink roses to hear it play the waltz that was now on the radio.

On the day she died, before we knew she was going to go, I’d stopped by my parents’ house after seeing her. I walked up to the attic to find some of her things, and for a moment I stood looking out over the rolling field that led down to my elementary school, and beyond that to the Mohawk River. Suddenly a few notes of my grandmother’s music box clock played. I hadn’t even noticed it there. I tried to wind it up again but it was broken. Those last few notes hung in the air and I cried.

On this day, a few years later, as the orchestra filled out the same waltz, bringing me back to my grammy and those idyllic evenings before bedtime, I felt a strength and protection that was still present, still resonant in my heart. I went up to the attic in my home, and found the clock that my Mom had given to me after Gram passed. I held it in my hands and looked over its faded roses and rusty hinges.

I’m not usually one given over to such New-Age namby-pamby talk, but once upon a time I was, and I was happy. I think I just lost my way for a while, and let others do the leading. That has never served anyone well, and it’s time to rectify things. I’m lucky to have a little help from above.

This trio of photos was just found on my flash drive – it seems I never got around to posting them after Christmas. I’m putting them up now because these two tykes are too cute to stuff back in the archives. In a couple of months they’ll be coming up on their fourth birthday, of which the ramifications and march of time startles me.

One of the reasons I’ve been happily unburdened by children is that I didn’t want a ticking time marker under my feet. Unfortunately, I have no control over the arrival of nieces and nephews.

They’re lucky they’re this cute.

This is what Christmas should be about ~ magic and wonder and a pair of wizard wands (shown off to best effect in a darkened bathroom). Here are the twins having fun with the gifts I got for them this year. In some respects they take after their Uncle (they were much more excited by these than the requisite items of clothing we got for them).

The holidays are traditionally centered around family, and Christmas has always been about the kids (especially the big ones, like myself), so here are a few photographs of my niece and nephew, along with a couple of ornaments on my parents’ Christmas tree. I don’t know if it’s the most wonderful time of the year, but it’s pretty good.