In November, my sister described me as a memorist. Having never given any thought to my writing style, over time, I have come to think she is correct.
I have also come to realize that the most important element of a memorist's writing is perception. My perspective, my recollection of events, is my reality--and likely not always correct. But I do my best to accurately portray my memories.
What I want to write about tonight are the two most pivotal memories I have of my father-in-law. In my mind they almost exist as one, but my writing will betray that they are actually separated by almost six years. It is my nature to integrate the two together.
In 2008, the year after we were married, we were visiting Jon's parents in Mora. Jon's dad, Gary, embodied the classic attitude of every Norwegian family transplanted to northern Minnesota--stubborn, quiet, refusing to complain about emotional pain or physical ailments. Did I mention stubborn? Because maybe I should bring it up again, just for emphasis. Gary did let his guard down sometimes, though. On this particular day, we were sorting through some items that had belonged to his mother, Helen. Helen Gunderson was a baker of wedding cakes and other fancy items, and she had accumulated a good collection of glassware and serving pieces, which were being stored in large tins. We had gathered to sort through her items and take anything we wanted. I chose a cake stand, two cookie platters, and a wine glass. I picked the wine glass because it was different. I had never seen one like it, and that sparked my interest.
Why do I remember that day? Because Gary so rarely talked about himself. But, that day, he flipped through some of his old basketball photos (he was recruited to play for the University of Minnesota, which is a whole other story.) He talked about his parents. He also mentioned, I am sure in passing, that Jon was the "last Gunderson of this family line, so the end of the name." In fairness, he did say it innocently enough, with only a little shoulder shrug.
Gulp. I mean, no pressure, Gary. If anyone needs me, I'll just be clutching this wine glass that belonged your mom.
I remember those moments very clearly. Because of the name business, and because of the glass. But mostly because Gary shared a part of himself that afternoon, which he was always so reluctant to do.
This is going to be my longest blog entry to date, I can already tell.
Fast forward to Christmas 2011. Christmas with the Gunderson family is a steeped in tradition--Norwegian tradition. Lutefisk, lefse, mashed potatoes, rice pudding. Almost everything on your plate is white. I remember the first year we were together, 2002, I told Gary--I love your son, but I'm not eating the lutefisk, period! I quickly grew to love Christmas with Jon's family. My memories of every year are fond, deep, too numerous to list here.
Gary was fighting the end stages of complications from Alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency at Christmas last year. I saw a man--not just any man, the staunch father of the person I love most--bend that year. Become grateful where gratitude had been hidden. Become contemplative where he had seemed indifferent. Become fragile where he had been steeled. The eight adults were upstairs sitting at the table, and the grandkids were in the basement. Gary was in his chair at the head of the table, and the room was quiet, as if in a dream. A man of few words proceeded to say, "When we were kids, my mother used to give us a little glass, I don't know, an apertief size, of Mogen David on Christmas Eve. And I wanted to do that for all of you this year, but I just couldn't. But, I wanted to thank all of you for all you have done for me this past year."
Gary's voice broke in that moment. Along with our hearts.
In a different family, maybe this wouldn't have been so poignant. So prophetic.
At 12:30 am on January 15th, 2012, I was driving as fast as I could from Chicago to Mora, but I wouldn't make it in time. Apolo had just been born, yet I couldn't be in both places. I knew when I left the hospital room, when I grabbed Gary's foot and said, "I will see you on Saturday," that I was choosing--choosing life. I remember my sister-in-law, Jen, saying that I had to be there when the puppies to were born, because we would all need to hear that joyful story. We would need the happiness that Apolo would bring.
Jon and I decided to revive the Mogen David tradition this year. And we did it by acquiring Helen's wine glass--a King's Crown #77 pattern by Indiana Glass--in aperitif style. For the whole family, with enough spares for an expanding family.
The header of my blog, chosen with so much intention, bears repeating on this Eve of the New Year:
Heaven is eternal. The earth endures.
The reason for heaven's eternity and earth's endurance
is that they do not live for themselves only,
and therefore may live forever.
I have also come to realize that the most important element of a memorist's writing is perception. My perspective, my recollection of events, is my reality--and likely not always correct. But I do my best to accurately portray my memories.
What I want to write about tonight are the two most pivotal memories I have of my father-in-law. In my mind they almost exist as one, but my writing will betray that they are actually separated by almost six years. It is my nature to integrate the two together.
In 2008, the year after we were married, we were visiting Jon's parents in Mora. Jon's dad, Gary, embodied the classic attitude of every Norwegian family transplanted to northern Minnesota--stubborn, quiet, refusing to complain about emotional pain or physical ailments. Did I mention stubborn? Because maybe I should bring it up again, just for emphasis. Gary did let his guard down sometimes, though. On this particular day, we were sorting through some items that had belonged to his mother, Helen. Helen Gunderson was a baker of wedding cakes and other fancy items, and she had accumulated a good collection of glassware and serving pieces, which were being stored in large tins. We had gathered to sort through her items and take anything we wanted. I chose a cake stand, two cookie platters, and a wine glass. I picked the wine glass because it was different. I had never seen one like it, and that sparked my interest.
Why do I remember that day? Because Gary so rarely talked about himself. But, that day, he flipped through some of his old basketball photos (he was recruited to play for the University of Minnesota, which is a whole other story.) He talked about his parents. He also mentioned, I am sure in passing, that Jon was the "last Gunderson of this family line, so the end of the name." In fairness, he did say it innocently enough, with only a little shoulder shrug.
Gulp. I mean, no pressure, Gary. If anyone needs me, I'll just be clutching this wine glass that belonged your mom.
I remember those moments very clearly. Because of the name business, and because of the glass. But mostly because Gary shared a part of himself that afternoon, which he was always so reluctant to do.
This is going to be my longest blog entry to date, I can already tell.
Fast forward to Christmas 2011. Christmas with the Gunderson family is a steeped in tradition--Norwegian tradition. Lutefisk, lefse, mashed potatoes, rice pudding. Almost everything on your plate is white. I remember the first year we were together, 2002, I told Gary--I love your son, but I'm not eating the lutefisk, period! I quickly grew to love Christmas with Jon's family. My memories of every year are fond, deep, too numerous to list here.
Gary was fighting the end stages of complications from Alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency at Christmas last year. I saw a man--not just any man, the staunch father of the person I love most--bend that year. Become grateful where gratitude had been hidden. Become contemplative where he had seemed indifferent. Become fragile where he had been steeled. The eight adults were upstairs sitting at the table, and the grandkids were in the basement. Gary was in his chair at the head of the table, and the room was quiet, as if in a dream. A man of few words proceeded to say, "When we were kids, my mother used to give us a little glass, I don't know, an apertief size, of Mogen David on Christmas Eve. And I wanted to do that for all of you this year, but I just couldn't. But, I wanted to thank all of you for all you have done for me this past year."
Gary's voice broke in that moment. Along with our hearts.
In a different family, maybe this wouldn't have been so poignant. So prophetic.
At 12:30 am on January 15th, 2012, I was driving as fast as I could from Chicago to Mora, but I wouldn't make it in time. Apolo had just been born, yet I couldn't be in both places. I knew when I left the hospital room, when I grabbed Gary's foot and said, "I will see you on Saturday," that I was choosing--choosing life. I remember my sister-in-law, Jen, saying that I had to be there when the puppies to were born, because we would all need to hear that joyful story. We would need the happiness that Apolo would bring.
Jon and I decided to revive the Mogen David tradition this year. And we did it by acquiring Helen's wine glass--a King's Crown #77 pattern by Indiana Glass--in aperitif style. For the whole family, with enough spares for an expanding family.
The header of my blog, chosen with so much intention, bears repeating on this Eve of the New Year:
Heaven is eternal. The earth endures.
The reason for heaven's eternity and earth's endurance
is that they do not live for themselves only,
and therefore may live forever.
