Pickin’ on huckleberries

August 25, 2009


Despite their common appearance, there is little similar between a blueberry and a huckleberry.

A blueberry is pale, with a subdued taste. It’s common. It’s boring.

A member of the same family, the huckleberry is tart and wonderful, every bite similar to what caviar must feel like.

Blueberries are typical. Huckleberries are rare. In fact, blueberries are often used in less particular creations that claim to be made with huckleberries. One huckleberry to every three blueberries - enough to keep everything legally “huckleberry-ish.” They cost a fortune when offered pure, and they’re almost as good when offered muddled.

They’re like gold. Except worth more, it seems.

Huckleberries can’t be grown in captivity.

They are a mystic fruit, dripping with old west legend. Their name is rustic in a way no other can claim. Nestled in the family tree next to the cranberry and the blueberry, they serve as a backwoods cousin.

Like homemade whiskey, they pucker your lips. You shudder, waiting for the next rude smack of insolvent country manner. Instead, you’re treated to a taste that blueberries still fight to attain.

Though I’ve grown up around both, only one carries the legacy of hand-picking, the plunk of a tin bucket as we wind our way through a wooded hill, speaking loud to keep the bears away and wondering if all of the work is worth it - if these few handfuls of berries will be able to ease our sore knees and purplish hands.

But a few handfuls are all you need. And yes, once paired with cream, or siphoned into jelly, it’s more worth it than any food you’ve had the trouble of fighting for.

You’d get in trouble for stealing a few, but Grandpa Boyer scolded in jest. After all, his lips had the same purple tint as yours.

They’re irresistible. And no amount of blueberries will ever suffice.

Tags: Food, Grandpa Boyer, On..., Outdoors |

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On losing a great grandfather.

May 1, 2009


I never knew any of my great grandfathers.

Most of us probably never got the chance. Nature doesn’t make it easy, and despite advances in technology and medicine, it’s still difficult to make it to 80 years old, a time when you’re most likely to have great grandchildren. For men, it’s even harder.

I never knew any of my great grandfathers, but Sierra’s known two: Great Grandpa Joe and Great Grandpa Burt, both on Kerrie’s side.

Yesterday, Great Grandpa Burt passed away. Suddenly, without warning, in his sleep. Peacefully and with dignity.

I’ll admit, I’m without easy words. Though I’ve gone through this before with my own grandfather, it seems so foreign – to see a man who has been so large a part of so many lives just leave the world without warning, leaving his wife of 63 years – Kerrie’s grandma Mardell – and the rest of us behind, lamenting, celebrating and remembering.

A World War II veteran. A wildly successful businessman. One of the kindest people I’ve ever had the privilege to know – a man who instilled caring and pride and common sense into every member of his family, from his children to his grandchildren.

His range of influence reaches farther than anyone I’ve known. Every name leads to another, each handshake holding the memory of a thousand more. Burt saw things I’ll never see, lived lives I’ll never imagine. Took everything as it came, with knife between teeth, crawling through life when needed and relaxing when the time was right. He fought wars I’ll never fight, flew next to French authors and catered ice cream to South Dakota’s future leaders.

He held every memory close, held each smile as if it would escape him. Manifesting in more of a frown, struggling to stay hidden despite the grasping urge to be set free, each smile came wryly, as if a present wrapped tightly. And once it broke through, it was absolutely beaming, each tooth seeming to smile itself, both eyes blinding in their joy.

Smiles that most often came from the screech of a little girl or boy. One of his great grandchildren – kids that naturally gravitated toward him despite their shyness, despite their need to stay latched to mommy.

That’s what always amazed me. Sierra was a different child around Burt. During her most shy days, she would gather up the courage to muster toward Burt, melting immediately into his arms, grasping as his glasses and gazing into those smiling eyes. The bond was evident. Though both probably never thought about, they were part of something special. Something legendary; a relationship spanning four generations.

I can’t attest to much more than what I know – that Burt was a brilliant, soft hearted man who had lived a long and illustrious life. Sprightly. Animated. Filled with vigor even as the years caught up with him. Always ready with a sly smile, always ready with a grandfatherly concern.

But I can attest to something special I witnessed in the past year and a half: a relationship so unique and rare that most don’t get to experience it. The relationship between a great grandfather and great granddaughter.

Every person hopes to live long enough to see just one of his or her great grandchildren. Burt was lucky enough to have six.

And Sierra was lucky enough to be one of them.

Sierra and Great Grandpa Burt

“When you look up at the sky at night, since I’ll be living on one of them, since I’ll be laughing on one of them, for you, it’ll be as if all the stars are laughing. You’ll have stars that can laugh!”

And he laughed again.

“And when you’re consoled (everyone is eventually consoled), you’ll be glad you’ve known me. You’ll always be my friend. You’ll feel like laughing with me. And you’ll open your windows sometimes just for the fun of it… And your friends will be amazed to see you laughing while you’re looking up at the sky. Then you’ll tell them, ‘Yes, it’s the stars. They always make me laugh!”

- The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Tags: Grandpa Boyer, On..., Sierra |

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Naming number two

January 27, 2009


When it came to naming Sierra, the choice was easy. I had an affinity for the name for a while, thanks to a song by the same name by one of my favorite bands, Cursive. I thought “Sierra” was beautiful. Original enough to be creative, but not so out-there to be weird. I mentioned it as a name to Kerrie, and she agreed, without any doubt. We knew that “Sierra” would be our girl’s name.

Sure, it’s not as original as I had thought – it was in the to 100 for baby names in the mid 2000’s, though it’s been dropping in recent years – and there’s always that damned GMC behemoth, but all in all I still think it’s perfect. I can’t imagine her being called anything else but Sierra.

Nothing else would fit.

Thankfully, we had a girl.

I say thankfully because, well, we never really managed to nail down a suitable boy name. They were all just “okay.” We had several chosen, ready to anoint upon birth, not knowing what the final answer would be until seeing Baby Boy Vilhauer for the first time. And, again, thankfully, we didn’t need to make that decision.

Which brings us to today.

For us, it seems as though girl names are infinitely easier to choose. We’ve already got a girl name picked out – a beautiful name that harmonizes with Sierra and sounds nearly classical with Vilhauer. First and middle name. Chosen. Done and done.

But for a boy? Nothing.

I think of this because we have an appointment today for an ultrasound. The ultrasound where we can discover the gender of the baby. The ultrasound where we could, if so moved, determine what our future will hold – a couple of beaming girls or a pair better suited for mixed doubles.

We’re not quite sure if we want to find out. Why spoil the surprise, right?

One reason is the name. What if it’s a boy? What if this perfect girl name is trashed in the name of an extra Y chromosome? And, what then?

Boy names are by nature more difficult. Clever names seem too cutesy, and the typical seem so generic. I wasn’t a typical boy growing up – as in, I wasn’t tied to cars and sports and the other things boys are expected to discover and latch onto – so I’m not sure what a name is supposed to represent. I was named after my father’s dog, after all. True story.

It’s been mentioned hundreds of times before, of course – a name is more than a word. It’s an identity that sticks with a child for his or her entire life, from birth until adulthood, along for the ride, written and mispronounced and branded onto every item that he or she encounters throughout every single stage of growing up.

And I think that makes the decision so important. I wonder what goes though the minds of those that use child names as some kind of personal fantasy, as some kind of joke or reaffirmation of ideals. I wonder why a Miami Dolphins fan would name their kid “Phin,” or why someone who was enamored with marijuana would name their little girl “Sweet Leaf.”

We hope that Sierra finds the beauty in her name as she grows up. We hope she understands every aspect of the word – the naturalness and creativity, and the historical aspect of her middle name: Dawn, a female version of my grandfather’s name, Don.

And we hope that, no matter what happens, Baby #2 finds joy in his or her name. Because it’s important. We realize that.

That’s what makes the decision so difficult.

Tags: Grandpa Boyer, Isaac, Miami Dolphins, Sierra, Vilhauer |

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Days With My Father

January 23, 2009


Photography and words that move.

That nearly moved me to tears as I looked at it, here, at my work desk.

Days With My Father, by Phillip Toledano - a portrait of the photographer’s father as he descends into a form of Alzheimer’s-like short term memory loss. It’s amazing. Touching.

I’m going to go back to missing my grandfather now, thanks.

Found via an older post by Bill at MTLB.

Tags: Grandpa Boyer, Photography |

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Darby

November 28, 2008


Three years ago, we knew my grandfather was going to die of cancer.

There’s no surprise in this story. He did, in January 2006, just days before his 71st birthday. We traveled to Idaho to spend one last Christmas with him, knowing he wouldn’t have another, and a few weeks later we were back, mourning instead of celebrating, feeling the relief of finality mixing with the grief of losing the rock our family was built upon.

For my grandmother, it was a tragedy. Her life partner, the man who provided for her all of her life, who served as the other half of the strongest marriage I had ever seen, who was a strong and loyal family man, successful business owner, loving father and husband, everything you would want a man to be – all gone.

We weren’t there when he passed away. My grandmother was there. My aunt, uncle and cousin were there.

And Darby was there.

Three years later, Darby too is prepared to pass.

Darby, an Akita, was more than a dog. He was the number two male in the house, an overgrown teddy bear known for getting into binds. Fiercely protective of my grandparents, yet incredibly sweet, he found himself growing old due to a series of untimely fights: a handful of black labs, a porcupine, a series of additional wild animals His skin was scarred, his hair becoming patched. His eyes clouded, began to bleed, until no amount of drops would cure them. His hips went through surgery. His weight ballooned until my grandmother could no longer pick him up.

As of this weekend, my grandmother has made the decision to put Darby to sleep.

Think about that. For her, Darby is the last remaining connection to my grandfather. He is the link that binds my grandfather’s life and memory. When my grandmother looked at Darby, she saw an animal that my grandfather loved, despite his faults, despite his difficulties. Darby was my grandfather’s best friend, just as many dogs have been best friends to many men.

Darby was there when my grandfather died, nuzzling his hand, fully aware of what was going on during those last few hours of hospice. He held that memory strong, until he felt it in his bones, in his hips, through eyes that could no longer see, blinded by bad luck and a sped up mortality, bleeding from his sockets like tears for those who have passed. He took on the pressures that my grandmother felt, weighting them on his back, collapsing under the pain, sapping it away from her mind, like a sponge cleaning up a staining oil.

It was as if he lived the part so my grandmother wouldn’t suffer, serving as the living embodiment of my grandfather’s legacy.

At the same time, he was just a dog. He was merely mortal.

Not to get all Marley and Me or Mitch Albom on you, but it’s heartbreaking to think about. They say dogs have no soul, but perhaps this is because they so fully take on the soul of those they love the most. They serve as a reminder; of what’s good in life, and of what’s important. Unbiased love, blindly unconditional, feeling everything you feel, both sympathetic and dismissive, as if they understand your plight but know it’s better to move on.

In putting Darby to sleep, my grandmother is finally ready to take that last step. To cut ties with the past, to face up to a future without her greatest love, to put the grieving out of misery and to walk forward.

To let go of the pain.

To let go. Move on. With fond memories, before things get worse.

To say goodbye, to both Darby and my grandfather. And to say hello to tomorrow.

Tags: Grandpa Boyer |

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I’m back…

September 7, 2008


Chances are, you haven’t seen me around for a few days.

There’s a reason. I’ve been on vacation, in northern Virginia, where Kerrie’s parents now live. It’s about an hour west of Washington D.C., and right in the heart of historical Virginia, where the streets are all cobblestone and the shops all consist of the same warped windows that have lasted through two of the country’s most recognized wars.

But more than that, I’ve been on a mini sabbatical, a rest from the world, respite from my constant wordsmithing. I’ve been recharging, as they say, and I won’t lie – I feel it.

I feel like I’m bursting with inspiration, my mind ready to take on the challenges of writer’s block. I feel like I’ve got things to say. Weekly and monthly columns to get around to. Books to pretend I actually read.

And, I feel relaxed. Probably for the first time since I stayed home with Sierra during my paternity leave. Relaxed, and thrilled about it.

With this relaxation, with the utter lack of responsibility and no need for critical thinking, I made some incredible realizations. Realizations that might seem banal, too simple to be revelations. But revelations all the same.

I realized that Washington D.C. isn’t a tourist paradise, but a legitimate amazing feat of urban design, mass transit and epic history. I realized that even the most hardened cynic can feel patriotic around the Lincoln Memorial. And I realized that after three years I still haven’t come to full terms with my grandfather’s death, a veteran of both the Vietnam and Korean wars, two wars memorialized in D.C. and located in close proximity for the maximum in emotional drainage.

I realized that history is unchanging, and that no matter how many layers of paint or remodeling jobs you do the ghosts of history still stand, watching you, Civil War caps tipped to the right, bayonets sagging under the weight of their ammunition, thousands of lives wasted for a quarrel, their remains creating the landscape that we trod upon.

I realized that 350+ pictures is probably enough.

I realized that a beer at noon tastes better than any consumed at night, that seafood pasta at home can reach restaurant like excellence and that the only thing you should do while on vacation is eat and drink and eat some more.

I realized that a week can easily be wasted just watching your daughter grow up.

Most of all, I realized that time off is necessary. That it’s healthy. That the problems of travel and close quarters and weather and delays and rising tension and lost productivity mean nothing when matched to the sheer expanse of soothing catharsis that comes from a few hours away from the grid. Or a few days. Or a week. Plus.

That’s all in the past, though. I’m back, and I’m glad.

Tags: Blogging, Grandpa Boyer, Meta, On..., Outdoors, Travel, Vilhauer, Writing |

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For more information…

December 6, 2007


For a copywriter, everything revolves around the headline. While we can doodle around with body copy - even have fun with it! - and inject a little bit of our own personality and style into an ad, building the headline takes a fine, pointed talent. It’s my biggest struggle - and I’m sure it’s the biggest struggle for many.

Writing a perfect headline is the goal. It helps sell the idea to both the client and the customer.

So when I see headlines like this one for The Lung Association, I can’t help but say “wow.”

The Lung Association Ad

Simple. Pointed. Striking. The message is there as simply as can be. And as someone who has been affected by lung cancer through my grandfather, it sure makes me think.

Bravo, TWBA.

(From Advertising/Design Goodness, a fellow 9rules site.)

Tags: Advertising and Marketing, Grandpa Boyer |

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