A Eulogy For My Grandfather

Although not an official eulogy, I wrote this for my grandfather' funeral, which took place last evening. It's the first thing I've written in a little while that isn't driven by academia, and I think it's worth posting.

Last quarter at DePaul, I was fortunate enough to read Gilead, a 2004 Pulitzer-prize winning novel written by Marilynn Robinson that I wouldn’t have encountered otherwise—at least not by this time. It’s an epistolary novel told from the perspective of John Ames, an approaching-80 rural Iowa pastor facing a terminal heart issue. He is transcribing his thoughts on theology, philosophy, and life with the hopes his then seven-year-old son will read it once he reaches early adulthood.

During this March as I was reading John Ames dwell upon his impending death, I was acutely aware of my grandfather’s struggle with cancer. John Ames writes to his son that “Adulthood is a wonderful thing, and brief. You must be sure to enjoy it while it lasts.” My grandfather never shared these words with me, but he didn’t need to. He lived them.

I rarely remember seeing my grandfather not donning a wide grin and speaking kindly to everyone around him. (Then again, I didn’t see him drive all that often.) As a young, inquisitive boy, I relished the times he would loosen his dentures and let them protrude from his palate, giving the illusion of a jaw he could unhinge. My brother and I would plead for this little parlor trick every time we saw him at his house on Edina. He always obliged.

As my brother and I grew older, our grandfather watched and approved graciously as we continued our educations, became car owners (and watched Jared earn the title of most-vehicles-simultaneously-owned-by-a- Butts, or maybe anyone in Lake County), pursued our passions, started our careers, and came into our early adulthood. He applauded as we faced and conquered our challenges; he offered sage advice as problems arose.

And I can’t help but wonder if, while facing his own mortality and maintaining a positive demeanor, he shared some of the thoughts that John Ames passed on to his young son. Thoughts that are a message for us. John Ames tells his child:

I have been thinking about existence lately. In fact, I have been so full of admiration for existence that I have hardly been able to enjoy it properly. As I was walking up to the church this morning, I passed that row of big oaks by the war memorial—if you remember them—and I thought of another morning, fall a year or two ago, when they were dropping their acorns thick as hail almost. There was all sorts of thrashing in the leaves and there were acorns hitting the pavement so hard they’d fly past my head. It was a very clear night, or morning, very still, and then there was such energy in the things transpiring among those trees, like a storm, like travail. I stood there a little out of range, and I thought It is all still new to me.

I feel sometimes as if I were a child who opens its eyes on the world once and sees amazing things it will never know any names for then has to close its eyes again. I know this is all some apparition compared to what awaits us, but it is only lovelier for that. There is a human beauty in it. And I can’t believe that, when we have all been changed and put on incorruptibility, we will forget our fantastic condition of mortality and impermanence, the great bright dream of procreating and perishing that meant the whole world to us.

Children think they will grow into it and understand it, and I know very well that I will not, and would not if I had a dozen lives. That’s clearer to me every day. Each morning I’m like Adam waking up in Eden, amazed at the cleverness of my hands and at the brilliance pouring into my mind through my eyes—old hands, old eyes, old mind, a very diminished Adam altogether, and still it is just remarkable.

I firmly believe that my grandfather focused on the beauty and wonder of life as he faced its end. And I’m beyond grateful that we shared one last Christmas with him at my father’s house. And that my younger cousins could have a Christmas with him. I—and I think I can speak on behalf of my brother and my cousins Danny and Cori—didn’t realize the importance of our childhood Christmases with our grandparents as they happened. Christina, James, Julian, and Kimberly, you were fortunate to spend a Christmas with your grandfather in the place he started his family while he was cheerful and lucid—it’s a fine memory that I hope you’ll cherish and recall when you think of him.

A few months later, his cancer exacerbated. Sometimes in life we’re only put in the position to react, not act. Not all circumstances are conquerable; some we can barely mitigate, yet I saw my grandfather maintain his grace. He was courageous, in the way that Hemingway defined courage as grace under pressure. But the effect of his cancer became evident, and, for the first time, a line of T.S. Eliot poetry resonated deeply: “His wings were no longer wings to fly / But merely vans to beat the air.”

Fortunately his suffering wasn’t elongated, and he died before enduring too much. He had his wife by his side as he went gently into that good night. All of his children and the majority of his grandchildren were able to say goodbye, each in his or her own way, before he left. And, although I don’t intend to raise one child above any of the others, he and my grandmother had my father’s house, medical knowledge, and unlimited charity to aid them through everything. I’m confident Grandpa was indescribably proud to have you as a son, Dad, just as I am indescribably proud to be your son.

As usual, I’ve gone on for a long time. And I’ve said everything I wanted to say. But how could I possibly close without quoting someone else, you ask? I can’t. I’d like to share a small passage from T.S. Eliot’s “Little Gidding.”

We die with the dying:

See, they depart, and we go with them.

We are born with the dead:

See, they return, and bring us with them.

I’m glad you’ll bring me with you. Goodbye, Grandpa.

The Dabbler's Dilemma

My dearth of posts can be attributed to a simple problem: I don't know what to write about.

If this blog were devoted to a cause, idea, or trend--no matter how somber or silly--I'd have a framework to write within. But devoting this blog to anything specific presents its own problem: I'm not an expert in anything.

I dabble. A little literature. A little politics. A little weight management. (A soupcon of life updates.) Unlike some of other bloggers, my dabbler's dilemma impedes my blogging abilities. I feel aimless, not liberated.

Perhaps it's time to kill off The Raid and create a blog devoted to something. Probably weight loss. I'm not an expert, but I have a good track record.

I can't be the only one with the dabbler's dilemma, can I?

Summer Reading

My summer runs from June 8 - September 10, roughly. That's when I take a well-deserved break from grad school. And that's also when I can fill a number of evenings and some weekends with non-required reading. "Non-required reading," though, is a bit of a misnomer (and pejorative) for me. Why? Well ...

1. I've always enjoyed "the books we have to read" for class. It's not a requirement; it's an opportunity. (Granted, some of them have felt akin to requirement, not opportunity.)
   
2. For future writing and literary studies, some of these selections may be required.

But I digress. So, here's the list of the books I plan to read over the summer. Who knows how many I'll get through.

1. The Middle of the Night - Dan Stolar. I've taken two classes with Dan Stolar at DePaul and really appreciate his thoughts on fiction--the new stuff, the classic stuff, the peer stuff, and my stuff. So, why not see what he has to offer?
2. The Torrents of Spring - Ernest Hemingway. After finishing this "first" novel, I'll only have one unread novel left in his corpus: Across the River and Into the Trees.
   
3. Stories from The Fifth Column and the First Forty-Nine Stories and Uncollected Published Stories - Ernest Hemingway. And then I'll have read every Hemingway short story published in Papa's lifetime.
   
4. The Gunslinger - Stephen King. A recommendation from former professor and good friend Michael Kapper.
5. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert. Many call it the first modern novel. It was, at the very least, an integral part of a hilarious Woody Allen short story.
6. Oblivion - David Foster Wallace. After reading "Consider the Lobster" and a short story of his in class, I'm interested to read a full collection of Wallace's short stories. I don't think I'm quite ready for Infinite Jest yet.
   
7. Jesus' Son - Denis Johnson. Johnson's another contemporary fiction writer I hear so much about and have zilch exposure to.
   
8. Moby Dick - Herman Mellville. Yup, I've never read Moby Dick.
9. Jane Eyre - Charolette Bronte. And I've never read any Bronte.
10. The Second Treatise of Government and A Letter Concerning Toleration - John Locke. I try to fit in some non-fiction and philosophy every year aside from what I read--or haven't been reading as of late--in The Atlantic. I'll let Locke count as both, well aware I'll take some flak for it.
    
11. Leaves of Grass - Walt Whitman. I've read "Song of Myself," but it's been too long.
    
12. O Pioneers! - Willa Cather. You really didn't think I'd limit myself to one Modernist, did you?
13. The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor. "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and "Good Country People" just aren't enough.

Maybe you can read about my progress on jessebutts.com, a secondary summer project.

Run Like the Wind...y City

Not bad for my first race, eh? (Working for 10 -minute miles next year.)

Goodbye, "Job Search" Label

Happy to report that I've found contract writing work for a small communications company on the North Side of the city. If they like me and my work (and have enough work to go around), there's the possibility of more work--and, dare I write, full-time employment--beyond the end of March.

Goodbye, Illinois Department of Employment Security dole. Hello, earned income.

Novel Concept

My final project for Narrative Strategies is submitting a polished draft of the first chapter/part/installment of a novel. Probably 10 or 20 pages. Now, you're probably thinking Jesse, you don't dress nearly artsy enough to write a novel. That's true, but the professor wouldn't accept it as an excuse.

So, I've pondered what the hell to write about. And thus far I can only think of the setting: employees at an amusement park. No idea about character, plot, etc. I tried to watch a story set in an amusement park, but it fell flat and I thought, at the time, it wasn't worth resurrecting.

Now, what could happen at an amusement park ...

25 Things

From Facebook to Blogger, here are 25 random "facts" about me:

1. As a child, I hated having an androgynous name. When I complained about it, my mother informed me there are a lot of men named Jesse. (There really aren't.) The clincher: I was named after my Aunt Jesse.

2. A lot of people are anxious about growing older. I look forward to it--with, of course, minimal reservations--because I feel younger and more energetic than I ever did when I was young. And hell, I started losing my hair at sixteen anyway.

3. I actually don't know that many words, and that becomes more apparent every time I pick up a new novel for class or the latest edition of The Atlantic. If I encounter a word I don't know, I look it up. That's how you build a vocabulary; it's not innate knowledge.

4. Yes, I have some loose skin, and I'll probably get more. I would only consider surgery if it were fully covered by my insurance. It doesn't bother me that much.

5. I'm honestly surprised when people can't tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi. They're so distinctive.

6. While J. Alfred Prufrock measured out his life in coffee spoons, I've delineated mine in Excel spreadsheets.

7. I think I would have been more at home in a school more like Kenyon or Dennison. Who knows if I would have gotten in, though.

8. I can't imagine living in the suburbs again (barring Evanston or Oak Park).

9. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s "The Strength to Love" is one of the most convincing Christian texts I've ever read.

10. I imagine my difficulties with growing up in a fundamentalist church and home will resurface in much of my fiction and other writing.

11. I love that Caroline is very critical and can explain her standards. And can explain why a movie, book, or piece of art in question doesn't live up to them. There's more than that I love about her, of course, but it's definitely up there.

12. I'm ready for the inauguration to be over so the honeymoon will end and the presidency will get into full swing.

13. In the year-plus I've lived in my apartment, I've never had food delivered.

14. I didn't enjoy my childhood. Too fat and too many rules.

15. If I had to do it again, I would publish a picture of two men kissing on the front page of The Chimes. Call me hubristic, but what people labeled as controversial or sensational in 2005, they'll call bold and visionary in 2055.

16. I'm annoyed when people give smart-ass answers to idiomatic questions. (Like "Do you have the time?" "Yes.") Come on, exercise some cultural literacy.

17. I'll probably always be remembered as the guy who lost 200+ lbs. I'd much rather be remembered as a great novelist, short story writer, or something along those lines, but we can't pick what people will choose to remember. And I'm beginning to think it's not that bad of a thing to be remembered for.

18. A few books really have changed my life, or at least the way I think about my life. They include A Farewell to Arms, The Sun Also Rises, The Four Quartets, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

19. Dr. Griffith once awarded me the smartass-English-major-of-

the-year award. God, I wish I could put that on a resume. (I wrote the best quip to his error on a grammar test. That quip: "It's OK. You went to state school.")

20. I don't know what I'll do with my master's in writing and publishing. Write? Publish? I just know I wanted to learn more and am enjoying it immensely.

21. I didn't like shopping for clothes much when all I could wear was the hodgepodge shit at Casual Male B&T. Now that I can shop at major chains, I do and somewhat enjoy it. But I'm still very distressed when people are judged by their clothing. I also don't care for the assertion that someone who's artsy or intellectual can't shop at Old Navy.

22. I have a helluva lot of respect and admiration for my brother. He's intelligent, charismatic, and hilarious. And he can do something useful with his hands.

23. I really hate all the food associated with Christmas. People just don't need to buy, prepare, and eat that much food. I understand it's a celebration, but isn't there a line between celebration and gluttony?

24. I love this Christopher Hitchens quote in a review about Edmund Wilson: "Anyone who has ever tried to digest The Da Vinci Code, for example, or the Left Behind series, will know that bad writing, aimed at a subliterate audience, is actually much more difficult to read than anything by Borges or Kundera."

25. I tell people I like to write, but I rarely do. I need to change that.

The Last Christmas Letter

While perusing the arcana in the Miscellaneous child folder of My Documents, I stumbled upon a few Christmas letters dated from 1999-2001. My mom usually wrote the drafts, with the exception of 2001, and I typed them, formatted them with appropriate Word Christmas borders (poinsettia, in this case), printed them, and helped her stuff them into Christmas cards.

There's a reason we stopped sending Christmas letters after 2001. A 2002 Christmas letter would be too painful--my mom would have had to write that she and my dad were in the midst of their divorce.

As I reread the 2001 Christmas letter, which my dad volunteered to write due to beaucoup free time a hernia operation afforded him, I noticed a number of small predictions and familiarities weren't fulfilled or had changed. My mom no longer works for the same employer (she started with that company in 1974), teaches Sunday school, sings in the worship team, or helps assemble layettes for the Waukegan chapter of Catholic Charities (she doesn't go to that--or any--church anymore). I did end up going to one of the colleges I was considering, but ended up with a double major in English literature and professional writing, not a BM in music technology. My brother has remained more steadfast in interests and careers, but he wound up with an associate's in automotive sciences rather than attending trade school and is starting college again in hopes of transferring to a four-year school and earning a BS in mechanical engineering. And my dad is no longer a deacon at the church (he, too, wavers between doubt and apostasy like my mom but would never vocalize it), a per diem respiratory therapist to pay the property taxes, or trying to "drop some weight and get in shape."

These little things are just that: the little things. Not everything will turn out how we thought it would seven years ago, thank God. It's to be expected. But I can barely relate to that 17-year-old morbidly obese boy who typed up the last Christmas letter while chastising his father's poor writing and lamenting his mother's flair for banal jokes and appending exclamation points and interrobangs to statements that didn't even deserve print. [Case in point: "She continues to teach Sunday school, ages 2-6 (is she crazy, or what!?) and still sings periodically with the worship team."]

But everything big is different now. Sometimes it's unreal, unfathomable that I was raised in--spent 70% of my life in--a conservative Christian home with all immediate family members living under one roof, denizens of the very house my mother was raised in. That I came from a family where pre-marital sex and cohabitation were clearly in violation of God's word and ended up in one where both parents lived (or are living) with a boyfriend or girlfriend. And now there isn't Christmas--there are two Christmases. Two birthday dinners. Two Thanksgivings. Just no anniversary.

I don't yearn for the past. My parents are in better relationships now. I like to tell people that "Stay together for the kids" has its flip side: two unhappy parents and however-many children feeling remorse that their parents remained unhappy and amorously unfulfilled because of them. (OK, you got me--I'd never say this to a seven year old, but I maintain that seven year old may start to think like me by 27.)

The 2001 Christmas letter was the final goodbye you didn't realize you had until hindsight kicks in--akin, but not remotely as painful, to saying something curt to a loved one before a tragic death. Extended family and friends, I'm sure, heard a biased version of our family disillusionment second-hand. Granted, none of us was in a state to come together and write a 2002 Christmas letter that summed up the fall and offered a few words of wisdom about the complexity of marriage and family. That type of closure is only something you can get away with in fiction. (And yes, maybe it'll be something I can get away with in my own fiction.)

The experience forced me to recognize that you can't control nonfiction. The characters do whatever they want, and the plot marches on. It's just your narrative that's yours--how you describe what you see, what you feel, what it makes you think, and what, if anything, you're going to do about it. I, after years of anger, sadness, and genuine existential crises, made my peace with life after the 2001 Christmas letter.

I'll never come downstairs and see both of my parents in the living room again, my dad snoring on the recliner with his dress shirt unbuttoned and my mom playing Freecell on the Packard Bell. But I do get to see my parents in relationships in which they're both happier, even if it meant more unhappiness for one than the other, and a lot for the kids.

My dad closed the letter with a short paragraphs about 9/11 and the following salutation, "Well, I’m getting writer’s cramp and I can’t think of much more to say so… God bless all of you and your families and remember to pray."

Remember to pray. I wonder if any of us do now.