This evening we attended the convocation for the Near Eastern Languages and Civilization Department at the University of Washington. My husband is one of 21 graduating with a Bachelors Degree from this department, and one of 3 with a degree in Persian Language and Literature.
Oh my goodness, my head is swimming. I’m so proud of him I’m in danger of bursting into tears at any given moment.
On a side note, why do they schedule these events prior to finals and papers being due? He’s going to end up pulling an all-nighter tonight in order to get a paper in tomorrow and he’s got finals tomorrow and Thursday. Enough already. Schedule these parties after finals. Thank you.
The actual graduation ceremony is on Saturday. And there will be several more parties after that. Then of course he has a summer long French Intensive Seminar and starts his Masters program in the fall.
I’m really hoping that this weather will turn around because the ceremony is outdoors at Husky Stadium and he still isn’t 100% after that bout with pneumonia. He doesn’t need to sit in the rain and wind for hours.
There is no talk of blueberries in my family – well, at least not without mentioning the blueberry incident. Eyes twinkle, hands rub together gleefully, posture adjusted to lean in a moment to hear the tale retold.
Again.
And Again.
Its not much of a story, yet every time I lower my eyes, squirm a bit, and blush appropriately. But in truth, I have grown accustomed to this tale. I’d probably miss it if they failed to tell the story.
We grew up on a farm. We had a goat.
One morning when I was three or four, I was outside playing when I burst back into the house exclaiming,”Mommy, I need a bucket!”
“Well, ok,” she says, “But why do you need a bucket?”
“Theres blueberries all over the yard!”
Never has any child been quite so ecstatic over goat turds.
Fast forward fourteen years to my high school graduation. Right before the actual graduation ceremony there was a religious ceremony, a kind of blessing for the graduates, and I was one of the speakers.
I stood beside Pastor Lee as he was introducing me to the standing room only crowd. As he spoke I started to understand that he was leading up to a story, a story he got from my mom, a story that, as he said, “Illustrates [my] exuberance and lust for life,” a story about mistaking goat turds for blueberries.
Then it was my turn to speak…
Its interesting to me how the laughter over the tale, the pre-emptive giggles, surpass the actual humor in the story. Yet still it has value as one of the stories that hold us together, make us a family. Our family story a weave of a multitude of little stories with a few big stories to give shape and context to the rest.
What about you? What little and big stories have been woven into the culture of your family? What story embarrasses you every time you hear it, but if they didn’t tell it, you’d miss it?
Go to your blogs, run, skedaddle. Write your story then leave a link here in the comments so that we can all go read your story and laugh with/at you.
After the fiasco of transporting Mom’s stuff to Seattle from Alaska via the ill-maintained U-Haul (see this post for the back story – we’re still fighting U-Haul on getting a refund), my brother Tim decided to hang around for a couple days and see if there are any good job opportunities for him around the Seattle area. Wouldn’t you know it, House of Harley needed a parts guy and my brother happens to be a Harley Davidson parts guy. Match made in heaven.
The new job starts on April 21, so Timmy has three weeks to give notice at his old job and pack up his house and drive his truck, his Harley, and the rest of his junk back down the Alcan. I’m hoping this time he wont go with U-Haul again. Is there any other option out there?
Slowly but surely my whole family is making their way to the Seattle area. Of course this is good news.
My brothers, Alex and Tim, are stranded somewhere in the middle of nowhere Canada.
They left Alaska Thursday morning in a U-Haul vacuum packed with my Mother’s possessions and headed South to the Seattle area. The trip can be made in three days if you have two drivers and don’t stop to sleep. That is also provided you are driving a vehicle that has been maintained a little better than a U-Haul.
This little adventure has netted the boys so far (on separate occasions): brake lights out, engine light on, lost power, fuel line failure, lost second gear, RPMs won’t go over 200. Responses from U-Haul have included repeatedly hanging up on the boys and one assistant manager stating that U-Haul doesnt pay him enough to drive out there with a new rig to swap them out. They did finally send a tow truck so now I’m hoping they’ll get moving in the right direction.
Apparently we’re not the only one to have trouble with U-Haul. A quick google search came up with a list of sites like this:
In the few short months between my trip to Alaska for a family reunion in August and my trip to Alaska for my father’s funeral in October, I read Sarah Vowell’s book Take the Cannoli: Stories From the New World. The book had been sitting on my shelf for nearly a year before I finally picked it up and started to read.
The first essay in the book was called “Shooting Dad,” a coming of age story of sorts: a progressive minded young woman grew up in the middle of nowhere in a house full of republican gun fanatics, yet finds her way home to a reconciliation with her father during an outing that involves his cannon. Hmmm, could be the story of my life.
My dad was famous around town as the guy with the Moose Gooser – A cannon that he kept at the house and packed up to take to every home game and most away games of the Palmer High School football team, the Palmer Moose. He was obsessive about that cannon and spent hours loading the shells by hand before each game.
I went to one game with him to watch him fire the cannon. That was this August and it was his last game. I read Sarah Vowell’s essay a month later and it was exactly what I needed to hear. No matter how extreme our political differences, he’s still my dad. And I love him – and I miss him.
The story is as funny as it is touching and well worth the time to read it.
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. The book had been sitting on my shelf for nearly a year before I finally picked it up and started to read.
