The Red Cabbage Gap

My father liked pickled red cabbage. On the rare occasions when my mother served it for dinner, he would talk about something he called the "Red Cabbage Gap." I never quite understood what the Red Cabbage Gap was, something I suppose about folks not eating enough red cabbage. But I always think fondly of my father when something reminds of red cabbage. He was the kindest human being I have ever met.

I thought of him last Tuesday. Carolyn and I spent the day top roping some climbs on the Dirty Gerdie boulder/slab near the Uberfall at the Gunks. After, Herdie Gerdie (5.8), and Dirty Gerdie (5.8+), we did Red Cabbage (an interesting crack climb that Williams rates 5.9-). I managed to get up it on my second try. It was the first 5.9 I have ever done in the Gunks. I'm glad it made me think of my father and the Red Cabbage Gap.

One thing the day showed beyond doubt is that Carolyn is a stronger climber than I. She climbed Herdie Gerdie without any observable problem and got up Dirie Gerdie with only a bit of struggle. I on the other hand took innumerable falls before I figured out how to do the cux on Herdie Gerdie, and managed to make it only about 2/3of the way up Dirty Gerdie. On the latter I did at least solve the tricky mantle move. In fact, I did it repeatedly because I kept falling off above and going back up to try the upper part again.

To my surprise, Carolyn tried a 5.11 route called Dogs in Heat. Despite repeated tries, she couldn't quite pull the crux, but I think she was close. I was proud of her. She'll get it next time.

This was the hardest climbing I have done since resuming the sport 2 years ago. I am very sore today (arms and shoulders, particularly). But, if I keep spending some of my climbing time doing similar and maybe even harder routes on top rope, I think I will actually be able to increase the difficulty of what I can climb. Kind of cool for an old man.

Ironically, of the three routes I tried, Red Cabbage, although rated the hardest, was the least difficult for me. Could it be that I have a bit of crack technique left over from Yosemite in 1972? Or was it just my dad's influence, encouraging and supportive as always? He was, after all, the one who drove me to the Gunks for my first rock climbing weekend when I was 13 or 14.

Day after tomorrow Lois and I leave for Honduras on a trip with her church. We are going to be there for about 10 days helping to finish a school the Episcopal Church has been trying for several years to open. We have a heavy suitcase full of parts for a jungle gym the group is going to assemble for the school playground. This will be a real adventure: neither of us has been to central America before.

Silliness at Verizon Center

There appears to be nothing too silly for intermission at an NBA basketball game. If you can imagine it, the Washington Wizards will do it.

I’m 60 years old. My first experiences of professional sporting events came when my Dad and Mom took me and my sister to Yankee Stadium to watch the Bronx Bombers, late 50s – early 60s edition, march through the American League on their way to another World Series victory under the leadership of the Ol’ Perfesser, Casey Stengle. Taking me to those games was a significant sacrifice for my Father. Although we lived in suburban New Jersey, he had grown up in Massachusetts a committed Red Sox fan. He once gave in to my pleas and read me an entire book about the history of the Yankees. But, he so hated the New York team that every time he book used the word “Yankees,” Dad substituted “Oompahs.”

Fine, you say. But, what does this drivel about baseball in the 60s have to do with silliness at NBA games? Read on impatient one, and you shall learn.

Baseball at Yankee Stadium in those days was a solemn affair. The sport was the National Pastime. The Yankees were its Gods. The “House that Ruth Built,” its temple. The grass was green, the stands were grey, and in center field, right there on the playing surface, stood tombstone-like monuments to departed deities: Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio. There were no dancing girls, not even any ball-girls. There were the umpires, dressed all in Navy blue as befits any self respecting ump, the grounds crew, the bat boys, and of course the ballplayers. No one else; whom else did we need?

As game time approached, the Yankees would take the field in their ever so dignified uniforms: white with Navy blue pin strips, the reverse of the uniform worn by the Wall Street bankers and lawyers who made up much of their fan base. (The blue collar guys had mostly been fans of the Giants or Dodgers, and were in mourning because those teams had betrayed them for filthy lucher on the West Coast.)

Once the Star Spangled Banner had been sung, the stately tones of Bob Sheppard, the Yankees’ PA announcer, echoed through the half empty stands, “Leading off and playing second base for the Boston Red Sox, Pete Runnels” (or whoever it was). And that was it. No fireworks, fancy introductions, mascot antics, or contests. Just a simple announcement of the name of the first batter. It was, after all, a baseball game we had come to see, not a vaudeville act or a circus.

And what games they were! We saw Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris hit homers in 1961, the year that Maris broke the Babe’s record. Tony Kubeck and Bobby Richardson turned double plays right in front of us. The “little lefthander” Whitey Ford struck men out. One day we sat in the right field stands quite close to where Yogi Berra, on a rest day from catching, was playing the outfield. My sister fell in love with him.

Yesterday, my daughter Valerie took me to a Washington Wizards basketball game. She and I go back to the days when the Wizards were still called the Bullets. When she was a little girl, we sat on a love seat in the kitchen after dinner and watched them play on TV. Those were the days of Juwan Howard, Chris Webber and George Muresan, the ungainly, odd-looking 7 foot 7 inch giant who played center. They had a couple of good seasons, and Val became particularly fond of Big George. We went to occasional games back then; more recently Val has taken me to several Washington Nationals baseball games. These trips have taught me that professional sporting events are no longer the somber, almost holy rituals of my youth. There is a certain amount of “entertainment” in addition to the game itself: the Nationals amuse us with racing Presidential mascots and the like. But nothing prepared me for what I saw and heard at last night’s basketball game.

We got there early. As we took our seats in the almost empty arena (named of course, not for the team, but rather after Verizon, the sponsor that had bought the “naming rights”), the faces of two insufferably perky twenty-somethings, a boy with stylish hair and a grinning blond girl, appeared on the giant TV screen hanging over the court. She was holding a microphone and babbling about the “Parent Makeover.” She had cornered to two reluctant gentlemen and was insisting that they put on various pieces of Wizards apparel (game jerseys, hats, sweats, etc.) and jump around like fools (while being shown on the giant, in-house TV screen) to prove they had as much “Wizard Spirit” as their (probably mortified) children. Neither fellow got into the spirit of it. Whom they had pissed off to deserve this treatment I could not say, but it must have been someone awfully important.

As Val and I were shaking our heads over this spectacle, a flying mini-van appeared! It made a slow circumnavigation of the arena. Then, apparently liking what it saw, continued to take laps. I suppose it was intended to advertize something; geniuses, these admen. But, I mean, what does a flying mini-van have to do with a basketball game? Everything, apparently, because the thing made numerous reappearances during the evening. (If anyone reading this ever meets Ezzy, my mini-van, you must be careful not to mention the flying van. I have enough trouble satisfying her demands to be taken out on the racetrack as a reward for pulling the race car and trailer. I can’t afford to pay for her to learn to fly.) After witnessing this aeronautical marvel, all I could suggest to Val was that we go get something to eat. She agreed, and bought me my dinner.

As we regained our seats, the floor filled with smoke, the lights dimmed, strobes flashed and music thundered. I expected at least the reincarnation of Paul Revere’s horse (apologies to Bob Dylan), if not the Second Coming. I was a tad disappointed when an over–excited voice intoned, “Yooouuurrr Waaashiiiingtoooon Wiiiizaaaards” and 11 tall guys dressed in white underwear trotted out. At least they were wearing the home whites and not the gold shirts with black shorts that make them look like a rec league team.

Just as I was settling down to concentrate on the first quarter action, some fool coach called a timeout, which afforded the blond girl the opportunity to inflict “Smile Cam” on the assembly. She instructed that the fan caught on camera with the “best” smile would be rewarded with a prize. It being “H & R Block Tax Preparation Night” at the old gym (sure glad I didn’t miss that one), the prize would be a certificate to have your taxes done for you. (Nothing about them being paid for you, though. Damn!) So, while several thousand eager taxpayers did their best imitation of Ronald McDonald, the camera panned the stands and projected their hideous grins onto the giant screen. Finally, Blondie picked a winner, he was given his much coveted tax certificate, and the basketball game was permitted to resume.

Next up we had “Dance Cam.” Yeah, it’s what you think. The camera pans the crowd looking for the best dancer, who won some prize or other. That really wasn’t so bad. Some of the kids, at least, looked really cute dancing. A fat guy won the prize. He could make his body go one way and his belly, go the other.

After a brief interruption for basketball, Blondie got back to work. The giant TV showed her shoving the microphone in the face of a big fellow slouching on a couch. It seems this piece of home furnishing is called the “Budweiser couch” (no one should be without one). With the unerring instinct of a Washington Post reporter tracking down a political scandal, Blondie asked the guy, “How did you get to sit on the Budweiser Couch?” She seemed at a loss, however, when all he said in answer was, “Drank a lotta Bud Lite.” A sudden resumption of basketball spared us most of her pained silence.

In the fourth quarter, as the game got close and the tedium of watching the players run, pass, dribble and shoot was becoming more than most in attendance could tolerate, Blondie came again to our rescue. She announced “KISSING CAM.” I wish I were making this up. If I were, I wouldn't make up this part. I'd jsut tell you the fianl score and be done wiith it. But Kisssing Cam really happened. She offered another prize, this one for the couple who did the best kissing while the panning camera was on them. We were treated to pecks on the cheek, decorous kisses on the lips, passionate embraces, and full tongue-in-the-mouth action. A young man and woman, who Blondie said were on their first date (how does she know these things?), refused to kiss at all. But they turned a lovely pink as they sat staring forward for what seemed like an hour with the camera on them. Who won the prize? How could you possibly care?

There was more silliness, but I was too numb to remember it. I do know that the Wizards won, holding off a late rally by the Memphis Grizzlies. And Val and I had a terrific time watching the game, laughing at the “entertainment” and chatting about this and that. Afterwards, she drove me home. I love having adult daughters.

Dad

I watched as my father scraped the mixture of pureed meat, peas and squash into a pile on the side of his plate and then awkwardly scooped some onto his spoon. With complete concentration and a shaking hand, he moved the spoon slowly toward his mouth. Just as it seemed he would drop the load of mush and have to start over, he brought his mouth down and slipped the spoon in. After swallowing, he started over, again and again. A meal took him well over an hour of hard work. He would let the staff at the nursing home feed him, but obviously preferred to do it himself. The aides seemed proud of his ability to do so.

He was 94. Since his stroke 8 years earlier, his right side was partially paralyzed and he had trouble finding the words to express his thoughts. He had worked hard at the rehabilitation hospital and been able to live at home with help from my mother for several years. Finally, when she turned 90 and his ability to care for himself deteriorated, he went into a nursing home near my sister’s house in Wolfeboro, N.H.

For most of my life, I had seriously misjudged my Dad. My mother is a very strong personality; she dominated the family as I grew up. Dad seemed a background figure: always doing whatever was needed to support what the rest of us were doing. I mistook his selflessness for weakness.

His response to his stroke and the last years of his life not only showed me how strong he was, but also gave me keys to living.

Dad seldom complained and never seemed to spend time resenting his condition or disabilities. I always found him pleasant to be with and interested in me and what I talked to him about. The staff at the nursing home emphasized how he was friendly and appreciative of what they did for him. The called him “Morty” (his name was Morton) and seemed genuinely to like him. He smiled often and sometimes gave them backrubs (as best he could). He apparently enjoyed life enough to want to keep on living it: in his last years he fought off several bouts of influenza that we all thought would kill him.

I think the key to his attitude was acceptance. He accepted that the stroke had impaired him and did not bother spending time and effort resenting that fact or lamenting what he could no longer do. But acceptance did not equate to surrender.

Dad continued to work to do all the things he could. He laboriously fed himself each meal. He crept around the nursing home in his wheelchair, investigating each new or interesting thing and trying to open every locked door. He followed the activities of the portly house cat with interest. He played catch with my sister (a physical education teacher) on her nearly daily visits. He always fussed over Sophie, my sister’s Chocolate Lab when she came to visit. He was unfailingly interested in the doings of his grandchildren. When I told him a story he recalled from my childhood he would get a big grin on his face and say, “I remember that!”

I once asked him how he was doing. He responded, “Pretty well.” Then he added, “For the way I am now.” To me that said it all. He accepted “the way” he was; but instead of resenting his condition, he focused on the “pretty well,” that is, on what was good in his life and what he could still do. His last years had a quality of gracefulness I greatly admire.

In the early morning of November 8, 2004 I was awakened by the ringing of my sister’s telephone. It was the nursing home calling. We had better come very soon. Dad had been unconscious for a couple of days and we knew the end was near. I dressed and drove over. My sister was already there. I held his hand and listened to him breath. He made a small, throat-clearing sound that was unique to him. Soon that sound will be gone from the world forever, I thought. I bit later, his hand twitched in mine and he stopped. Just stopped. No breathing, no movement, no warmth. My father was dead.