Termas de Chillan at Dusk

My last night here - taking the train to Santiago tomorrrow morning.

View outside my window

Termas de Chillan

Random Chillan Stuff

The weather has been glorious. My skin is getting browner and more leathery each day. The view is breathtaking each and every morning I ride up the lift. All the lifts are very slow, which is a good thing. More opportunity for tanning, and more appreciation for each run on the soft springtime snow.

The food has improved dramatically since last year, particularly the seafood and salmon ceviches.

I still can't adjust to breakfast no earlier than 8am and dinner starting at 8pm. I'm accustomed to early to bed, early to rise. I'm ready to pass out by dessert.

The coffee is REALLY good.

Snow in August!

After my first day of skiing at Termas de Chillan I'm relaxed for the first time in months and I'm getting a good tan. Last night was the famed "Volcano Night" but again, I forgot my camera. A gaggle of flaming volcano formed baked Alaskas stream out of the kitchen and into the dining room, amazingly, none of the waiters carrying them were incinerated.

It's so good to be here.

Mmmmmm Pizza....

What's this? A pizza blog? Oh yeah!

EEEEEEEWWWWW!

Last year it was the goddamn deer eating my tomatoes, this year it's goddamn alien caterpillars from the 5th circle of hell. Look at that thing (it's munching on a hot pepper plant in that shot, I hope it got indigestion) it's HUGE yet the perfect shade of green to match the tomato stems. I've found two, but I know this will be the Driftwood Lane War of the Worlds. One of the monsters can wipe out half a large tomato plant in one night. Tomorrow I'll wake up, and the house will be gone!

I forgive you, Bangor Metro.

Back in April they published a photo of mine but made a minor mistake on the credit, and I went off on them. The editor posted a comment with everything you could possibly want in an apology: contrition, acceptance of responsibility, blatant flattery and lobster. It's more than I deserve.

I'm back.

Where have I been, you ask? Dad, my hero, died on June 30th, and I haven't had the heart to write about anything since. My world is so much emptier without him in it. Here's a link to the memorial program, if you'd like to read it and see some pictures of him. As you can see he was a handsome devil. Here's a version of the speech I gave at the service (I had to transcribe it from a crumpled up piece of notepaper):

My most vivid early memories of my father all had to do with cars and trucks:

Dad driving home in the truck each evening with his elbow resting on the door and a can of beer in his hand (back when you could get away with that sort of thing).

Scott and I would ride with Dad in the truck sometimes if Mom was really busy. I remember my navy blue pocket t-shirt and blue pants, a miniature version of the work clothes my father wore for years. Scott and I each posed a challenge for Dad, but in completely different ways: while Scott delighted in hurling tools out the window of the truck while they were racing down the highway, I would pick all the ladyslippers in the backyard of a house in Sandwich, which as you know is grounds for immediate execution.

When I was 16, Mom, Dad and I went to England. Imagine yourselves trapped in a 1976 Fiat with two dyslexics and a control freak - Dad and I, who can't tell right from left, and Mom, the only one who could read a map. To avoid certain death stayed on the single lane roads, thereby avoiding any confusion about which side of the street to drive on.

For years I was ashamed that it took me so much longer than other children to learn how to tie my shoes, tell time, discern my right hand from my left, until my father explained why he had a star tattooed to right hand, between his thumb and forefinger. In the Navy, it was critical to know which side of the boat he was on, so the star on his right hand would tell him each time he looked at it was the "starboard" side. I do the same thing by reminding myself each time that since I wear a watch on my right hand, this direction must be right.

On the surface Dad seems like a pretty straightforward guy, but as you got to know him, you realized how complex he really was.

We have all seen him, one of Joe's grinders from Ellen's store in one hand, the other gripping a hose thrust into a septic tank, but then there were the other sides: Dad was very well read, and he would often have 3 or 4 books going at once, ranging from ancient or local history, architecture to classics and mysteries. He was well traveled and developed sophisticated tastes in food and decorative arts, and I could always rely on him to know prices in the precious metals market. He loved to go to museums, he and I went to auctions a lot to buy junk we didn't need, gossip with the auctioneers and runners, and just hang out.

He taught himself how to bake, and after a month of bowling ball bread loaves, he had mastered a fluffy, crusty, and tasty loaf of bread. He agonized about the flakiness of his pie crust. He combed used book stores and auctions for old cookbooks, hoping to find the one with the perfect recipe for baking powder biscuits or cornbread.

He was quite articulate, and could contribute something interesting to any conversation or gathering, with the possible exception of Town meeting. I'll miss going to Town Meeting with Mom and Dad, her with her Machievellian plotting, Dad, getting up and speaking about every issue, no matter how mundane, ignoring Mom when she'd hiss at him "Russell, you get up one more time and you are walking home!"

Dad was very self-contained man - independence was life to him. He was above all things a physical being - his identity as a man depended on his ability to move his body, his legs, his hands. It meant a lot to him to be able to shingle his own roof at 78 years old, drive where ever he wanted, and have enough stamina to throw tools at my brother.

I know he loved my brother and I, and he never wanted to hurt us. In fact, Scott and I have lost our biggest fan, our loudest cheerleader.

But he had to be free. He felt that he had lost that, and therefore lost his whole reason for living. Who can blame him for following the Roman and Japanese traditions of choosing ones own passing when life can no longer be lived honorably. When I say honorably, I don't mean by the standards of others, but by one's own standards. Dad didn't really give a shit about anyone else's expectations (here' s the part where Mom strikes me with a bolt of lightening) but he did expect a tremendous amount of himself.

How can I judge a man with such an innate sense of decency, who showed such kindness and generousity to people who really needed help. If going out this way was the the only choice for him, then we can spend the rest of our lives being upset about it, or we can say: "No, I didn't like it, but I understand, sympathize, and respect your decision." It was a brave one.

Dad's death has reminded me that what defines me as a human is my ability to feel compassion for, and forgive the people I love - even the ones I don't love. Rather than getting angry, it's so much better to just let it go and say, yes, what you did is really hard for me to accept, but I'm going to do it because I respect you, and because I love you.