Fern’s nephew decided I was a jungle gym, and my ears were hand holds. He’s a cool little guy, ear-grappling notwithstanding. I like to think I get along with kids pretty well, despite some photographic evidence showing me rather terrified of holding a very young child. If I seem out of my element with little kids, it’s because, well, I am. I’m not anyone’s father. I’m not even anyone’s godfather. Sure, I’m Winston and the kitties caretaker, but that’s as close as it gets.

I’m constantly in awe of my friends who do have kids. Y’all that are reading this now, you guys are amazing. Every frickin’ last one of you. Because, Jesus, kids are crazy. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they’re unbelievably rewarding and expand your heart, and make you a better version of yourself, and all the other things the Father’s and Mother’s day cards say. I don’t doubt that. But I’ve shared more than one beer with a bedraggled, frustrated, sleep-dep’d parent. I don’t know how you do it, but you guys are turning out the future, and that’s pretty amazing.

I’m grateful for the time I get with nieces and nephews and friends’ kids because this time around, that’s as close as I’m going to get to being a parent. I never really had a ticking biological clock like so many of my friends have, yet I always felt I could make a good parent if my significant other did want to have kids. Circumstances as they were, we decided early on that kids weren’t in the equation for us.

And here’s where I might offend some people.

For all those people with children who have ever told someone without children that they’ll “come around” or you “felt like they did” before you decided to have kids – if you have ever said anything like this to someone, this? This is my middle finger. Seriously. Because here’s the thing: you decided to have kids and I’m sure you had great reasons. Eventually you determined that, yes, you really wanted to have kids and so, darnit, that’s exactly what you did. And good on you! See above about parents being awesome. But by the same token, having a child when both parents are fully engaged? That’s a recipe for disaster. I’ve known too many people who grew up knowing their parents didn’t really want them – whether that was through neglect or outright abuse…  yeah. So if a couple decides they don’t want kids, don’t try to tell them they do. I can say this for my own circumstances: our decision was carefully thought through, deliberated, and not made without a lot of consideration.

While you can never truly tell how your children are going to turn out, I see my friends doing everything possible to raise their kids as best they possibly can. And the idea that someday years from now another child will likely put your name up a branch of a family tree… that’s got to be humbling.

For those who decide to raise the future, I salute you.

For my part, where I’m at in life I’m trying to put my energy into my writing. No, it’s nothing like parenting – I’m not going to pretend it’s anything like that. But a long time ago I remember reading that Tori Amos calls her songs her “children” (this was before she actually had children, mind you, but even after becoming a mother she still counts her songs as children, just, you know, not people-children. I hope…). I look back at October and see 31 little instances of me in the 31 Ghosts. These blog posts – the selfies, the stories, even the links, and hopefully soon podcast(s) – all these things are my way of saying from the end of my family branch, “Hey, I was here!” For now, that’s enough.

But I’m also blessed that I can let other peoples’ children use me as a jungle gym. Perhaps one of these days I’ll go back to teaching. For now, corrupting children on a one-on-one basis works pretty well. And do you know what the best thing about being an uncle is? After you hyped them up, or taught them the secrets of Coke and Mentos, or how spraying that aerosol wax on hardwood floors makes for awesome sock skating, after all that you get to give them back to their parents! Sorry! (not sorry).

This is out at the Alviso Marina County Park, and although the house-shaped dock marker is the object in my mind when I wrote one of the shoot-outs in “Teddy Screwed Up”, seeing it today reminded me in no uncertain terms that a lot has changed in the South Bay since I called it home — which has been sixteen years, though really it’s been more than twenty since I had really hung out in Alviso. Teddy lives in the Alviso I remember, and that’s okay for him/me.
Fern had to come down to Mountain View for training and it sounded like a great opportunity to take the day off and visit my haunts while she trained at the Big G (no, she’s not really working there… it’s a long story). Turns out she was going to their secondary campus out by Moffett, which, damn, the new-to-me changes started coming hard and fast. Where’s the Blue Cube? Where’d all these buildings come from?
I dropped her off at ten and determined that the first thing I had to do was visit some family — first stop, Alta Mesa cemetery.
Okay, hold that, first stop was Costco, Mountain View. I well remember when Costco came to Mountain View, but at the time I was ticked off because I was getting into old Honda motorcycles and the best motorcycle pick and pull in the Bay Area resided on the spot that In’n’Out sits, and they cleared that whole corner at once. Things were changing fast back then, and that was when Google wasn’t a glimmer in Larry and Sergey’s eyes.
So what was at Cosctco? Flowers!
There’s a line from the Bright Eyes song “Four Winds” that goes, “all the way to Cassadaga to commune with the dead/ They said, ‘You’d better look alive’”, so I did.
Then it was off to Alta Mesa. Jill told me not to bother checking with the office to find out locations and she chastised me to “Just take a breath and remember when we used to go visit with Nana.” She was right — I walked straight to the mausoleum where my Nana is now with my grandfather and uncle — neither of which I really knew when they were alive, but I (obviously) remember visiting after they were gone. From there it was muscle memory again that brought me next door to my dad’s parents (again, I never got to know them, but I visited them in the mausoleum). I left generous bouquets at both spots and told both Mom’s and Dad’s parents that they were loved, missed, and remembered.
On my way out, I threaded my way through a Samoan funeral just breaking up and made one last stop before leaving Alta Mesa. Someone marked Google Maps with a point for Steve Job’s grave. Color me curious, I remember reading shortly after he passed that he wanted to be buried in Alta Mesa where his parents were buried, but also that he wanted an unmarked grave, lest it become a shrine. A quick search indicated the marker on the map was probably due to some Italian bloggers claiming to have found his unmarked grave because a) it was near David and Lucile Packard and b) when they filmed their YouTube video shortly after his death there was a freshly filled-in grave nearby. I followed the landmarks in the video to that spot… which now had the marker for a couple (not Steve Jobs). So, you know, no flowers for Steve.
From there it was a straight shot down Foothill Expressway (with a quick detour through downtown Los Altos which is so changed from my childhood… and Jack and Jay, if either of you are reading, the lights in the trees a) are STILL UP and b) look like crap. I’m just saying. Totally not biased. In the parking lot outside the little garden and columbarium at Los Altos United Methodist Church I first lamented that the Andronico’s Market across the expressway was now a Safeway. Though as I put together the bouquet for my mom and dad I realized that when Andronico’s went in I was lamenting the loss of Rancho Market and the bottle shop next door where I used to get Garbage Pail Kids after school on my bike ride home.
I wished my dad a happy belated birthday, and told them both how much I missed them. I cried. Wept, really. That fits better. Wept. I told them I was writing a lot more, that I was pretty sure my mom would love it. And then I cried more. It’s funny, you know? When you lose folks you love and of course you move on, and the grief lessens, and, as it was so wonderfully put in “Sleepless In Seattle”: “I’m gonna get out of bed every morning… breathe in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won’t have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breathe in and out…” After you don’t have to remind yourself to breathe in and out and you think you’re fine, that you’re past it all… and then you let yourself feel. Wept. I wept.
After that, I needed something to move forward. I needed to do something new in this valley of memories. So I decided to conquer a childhood fear of mine: The Blue Max. As a kid, I remember going to the Fish and Chips place next door tucked in the corner of the strip mall in Sunnyvale at Hollenbeck and El Camino Real. Next door was a dive bar called The Blue Max after the 1966 film about a fighter pilot in the first World War. There were no windows to see inside The Blue Max, and the door was some heavy dark wood that remained closed beneath overly stern “MUST BE 21 OR OLDER” signs. It’s not an exaggeration to say that the intimidation The Blue Max inspired in young, impressionable Jordy put me off of dive bars until about five years ago. Since then, I’ve discovered a few things about dive bars. First, they’re not so scary. Really. Second, they’re actually pretty fantastic, especially if you are interested in (surreptitiously) people watching. In an effort to move forward, I pulled open the heavy dark door and stepped in through the swinging doors (see?! Heavy door AND swinging doors — this place was an impenetrable fortress to young Jordy!) and into… about the most Old School place that remains in the greater South Bay. There’s other places left, I’m sure, but the dimly lit bar and its older clientèle — about a dozen folks, the youngest of which had at least a dozen years on me — felt like a dark wood and ancient tobacco-smelling oasis in a valley so enamored with the new and with change. In honor of my dad, I ordered a 7&7 and just took in the scene and the people around me and chastised myself for not coming in sooner and promising myself I’d come back again next time I’m town.
Eventually I exited the Blue Maxx and blinked my eyes against the overly-bright and warm February sun, my eyes adjusting to see the fresh high-rise construction on two of the corners opposite the strip mall. The bartender told me the owner of the place for the last 45 years sold it this last November. However she also said the only thing that changed was a new bank of beer taps that quadrupled their beer selection. Here’s hoping it’ll remain an oasis in the Valley for another 45 years.
A little nostalgic, I made my way out to Alviso — which brings us back to the picture up top. Shortly after my dad died, my mom found a coupon for Vahl’s in Alviso and she was as curious about the town as I was. I remember we pulled up as the sun was setting and a train rumbled through town and out over the slough, headed for Sacramento and beyond. Vahl’s is closed on Mondays, but it’s still there — another holdout from a long-ago past. I’ll take it. Fern texted me saying that she was ready to be picked up. I looked out across the water to the salt mounds on the other side of the bay (far smaller than they were when I was younger), took in a deep breath of the salty air, and as I let it out I folded up my memories of Alviso, of Sunnyvale, of Mountain View, of Los Altos and I put them away. I wound my way back onto 237 towards the shiny new office buildings that replaced the Blue Cube and I smiled knowing my hometown(s) will always be mine.