Clearing up the smog

It rained Friday night in Los Angeles. A pretty fierce downfall, actually, and the first precipation in months, as far as I can recall. It seemed an appropriate way to end my week, indeed, perhaps a series of months. Rain. Renewal. Cleansing. Peace.

See, it was a challenging week on a number of levels, stemming from the news that my grandpa passed away back in Nebraska. Even now I think I remain on hyper-drive, not really taking the time to let emotions play out. There's a quote in the book I'm reading (A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving): “Rituals are comforting; rituals combat loneliness.” It’s a true little phrase, and I think one could easily substitute the word busyness for rituals. As long as I keep myself busy, I don't have to face the music, but there is a danger in that, and so I thank my thoughtful friends and coworkers who have been listening ears and extended such kindness.

Those who know me can testify that I don't naturally open up about my deeper struggles; this is something I've been working on, and this week has reminded me of the importance of dependence on friends. Internalizing, compartmentalizing--it only lasts so long.

My mind is still quite overflowing with thoughts and topics, far too much to spill onto this blog, so I will save them for future posts. In the meantime, here are hints of posts to come: M.I.A.'s latest album Kala, the new musical Across the Universe, and perhaps a few words on human struggle and my impressions of God's enduring love. Eclectic? Yes. Unexpected? I hope not.

For now, let me close in dedication to my grandpa.

My grandpa's name was John Hatcher Frey. Ever since I can remember, he called me "Whitney-John." I'm not sure why I got this honor (or teasing), since there were nine other grandkids, one of whom's middle name really was "John," but I think, and Mom you can correct me if I'm wrong, that it was because I was quite like him as a kid: stubborn, aggressive, rowdy. And I guess because I accepted the nickname with pride.

I loved my grandpa and I've stored away many memories of his booming voice, his crushing grip when he hugged me, his crisp white shirts, the new-car smell of his vehicles, the cleanliness and organization of his tools and workshed...I remember the way he noisily cleared his throat--there was no mistaking where he was in the house-- and the way his mere presence reminded you to sit up straight and keep your hair out of your eyes. He was a strict one, and mischievous. It's been heartbreaking these past few years so see changes as he approached his final, 87th year...weaker, frail. Grandpa and Grandma moved off the acreage where we'd spent so many holidays waking up to the smells of coffee and bacon, spent the days wandering the go-kart trails and picking apples for apple pie, and running through the house playing "cops and robbers" with the cousins...He'd built up a beautiful place, and a large, wonderful family.

(Here...I am finally having my moment...)

And even though as we kids grew up, we realized (as happens with all kids and their view of adults), that Grandpa wasn't perfect, I still loved him. I love him. And I wish I could have said good-bye. I hope someday I'll be able to ask him so many questions. And I'm so thankful for having him as my grandpa, the only grandpa I ever knew. And now, as I finally have my cry and type this with reckless abandon, unedited and grammatically crazy (still think I should go to law school, Grandpa??), I offer it as a severely inadequate tribute to a man who defies the limitations of a blog.

Here's to you, Grandpa. I miss you.

Love,

Whitney-John

Tears clear my head the way the rain clears the smog from the city...come, Autumn, come, New Season.