Conversations with grandpa

I have to be called in to go there. I can't go just go because I haven't gone in a while and it's my duty to go. There is no duty. He knows it and I know it. I go whenever I get called to go. Like an invitation but a higher calling.

Today, when I go, the smell of grass is amazing. Maybe Thursdays is grass-cutting day, who knows. I know on Wednesdays they collect all the old flowers and throw them out. They have signs all over stating that. Even a mortuary has a strict schedule. After all, the business of the dead is a serious one since it includes everyone. Yes, everyone.

Besides the amazing grass aroma, the weather is beautiful. Fall is finally coming. There is a charming wind in the air and yet my skin is warmed by the October sun. I think last time I visited him was before I went to Iran...so it's been a while. I feel like a lot has happened since then, for me, more inwardly than outwardly of course.

The inward journey is much more difficult--and exciting.

First thing I do normally is to water his grave with one fresh bottle of Arrowhead Mountain Spring water. Then I sit, cross-legged thanks to my almost-regular yoga practice. God, this place is beautiful. The view of the ocean, the vast sky above...all of it. And of course, he would be there in such a magnificent place. He always had the best of it all, wore the best brands of clothes, drove the best cars and ate the best food.

I can't help but read his gravestone again, something I do every time I go there. It says his name, and then "Beloved Father, Grandfather and Brother." Do people notice that the word "husband" is missing? I do every time. Sometimes we joke about it in our family. Whose decision was it to finally omit that word? And did that person ask my grandmother how she really felt after his death? Did the person ask his other two wives who have passed on? No. That person, in their infinite wisdom, decided that he couldn't be called a "beloved husband" just because he didn't handle the relationships that well.

I don't think that's a strong argument though. One can be a "beloved" even if they screw up a relationship, one can be loved very dearly even if they ended a relationship...love is an amazing limitless phenomenon and defies every rule. Love is a higher calling...

Of course, analyzing his gravestone for the 100th time in 6 and a half years makes me a bit mad. But I can also hear his voice telling me to stop stressing, as he always told me, "You "woory" too much", with an emphasis on the OU sound of word worry.

"Fine", I tell him. Then I smile and look above where the planes are taking off John Wayne Airport. I start counting. At one point, I see three planes.

"Damet Garm Babaee, what a great place you picked to be buried at!"

He smiles. "I am happy you don't eat out much anymore. Cooking is good for you."

I smile. "Thank you for teaching me how to make rice! Remember? One time you forced me to watch you make it. I am still not as good as you were but I am trying."

"Sakht nageer. Life is short. Trust me on that one!", He says. (His sense of humor has improved since his passing. They say that about the other side...)

Then we both laugh. I am thinking one day I will change the gravestone and add the word "beloved husband" on it. I don't tell him that but he can read my mind. Not because he is dead but because he read my mind all the time even then.

It's time to leave. "See you next time. Well, not exactly see you...but you know what I mean..." I say.

"See you...Obama will win by the way." He declares the future.

Wow, now I am having the best day.

And that was my grandfather, Babaee. He was an amazing man, made all the mistakes that humans make and yet lived a full life.

It was his to begin with; it was never mine...

Every Wednesday I drive to LA for class. They serve dinner usually at 8:30 p.m. during the break. Sometimes I get a bit hungry right before class, so yesterday I made myself a sandwich for the way there. You know, like mothers do for their kids, just in case I feel a glimpse of hunger come, I can have a bite. God knows we can't concentrate fully on Rumi and Erfaan on an empty stomach.

I made it with hummus that I had bought from the farmers market,the authentic kind right from the Jordanian guy who attends every farmers market all over Orange County and who is very pushy by the way. I used some fresh red bell pepper, and the pickles that I had made myself from scratch. Yes, it looked tasty.

I packed it actually very neatly too as if it was for sale or something. I wrapped it in paper towel first, then put it in a Ziploc bad and there I went on my one and a half hour drive to LA. Well, guess what? that tiny glimpse of hunger never hit me and the sandwich remained in the car.

I had a full mighty dinner in class, this time the volunteers had brought meat lasagna with salad and my favorite ginger dressing. When the class was over I realized the sandwich is still sitting in my car. I panicked for a couple of reasons. I was not going to eat it for lunch the next day because I was meeting someone for business purposes for sushi. Dinner...I already had left overs from my uncle's house, home-cooked Persian food and so if the sandwich sat in my fridge for over 24 hours--well, I wasn't going to eat it. That simple.

And hence the panic. Then a sudden realization came upon me. I was in Santa Monica, in the midst of one of LA's homeless populations. In fact, many years ago I had to go there to make a documentary about homelessness for one of my undergraduate sociology classes...you know, back when I actually thought about the possibility of social change. Back when I was an idealist.

I started driving. I took Broadway down to Main looking for him--my hungry homeless man (or woman). They usually sat on the benches or at that time of the night, slept on the ground. I had to make a couple of rights and lefts before I saw him, right on the bench on Second Street near Coffee Bean. I was nervous because I wasn't sure if he would welcome the sandwich offer or would he even like hummus? I mean, it is very New Age...you know and vegetarian. He could probably use a BigMac or or a nice chunky chicken sandwich from Carl's but hey, fast food is bad anyway.

Slowly I parked the car near the curb and put my flashers on. I really didn't want to exit the car, not for the fear of it but I didn't want to make a scene. It was my intention to give my sandwich away very discretely. I rolled down my automatic passenger side window and said rather shyly to this strange man whose face was covered with a scarf. "Excuse me sir, would you like a sandwich?" He looked at me, first a bit shocked, then smiled and said sure. I gave it to him and his smile widened even more as he actually touched it. He then thanked me, his eyes full of gratitude.

Then I knew. I knew exactly why I had gone through all the trouble to make such a nicely wrapped sandwich that afternoon; I had made it for him anyway, not me. It was all his to begin with, it was never mine. I was just an instrument.

I hope he liked it though. Not everyone has a taste for hummus.

Friends for many lives

Him and I, we have been friends for a long long time. Many lives actually.

This I always knew but became even more evident to me when we walked together one day along Vali Asr Ave., south of Meydooneh Vanak and reminisced about our past living on 18th St. as a family. We took a trip back to history, back to the days that he took me to FunFar across the street after he came back from work. And now, he showed me a brand new commercial building that sits right where FunFar was. Another "borj" built upon my childhood memories. It's like the movies, I tell you, the whole trip was like a movie.

That day, as we walked down the street together, we joked like two buddies, joked about the crazy traffic of Tehran's streets and the mad driving, and my favorite of all, the lack of proper public bathrooms, which would deter me from moving there permanently ever. (If I were to pick one reason not to ever move there...)

We kept walking as he smoked and spoke on his "mobile" very loudly. He would then stop for a minute or two and catch his breath. I would ask him to buy me Aab Taalebi, just like when I was still a little girl and he would do it happily.

Yet we are friends more than we are a parent-child unit.

What I wonder of course is why he chose to came through as my Dad in this life, or why I came as his daughter? Maybe so that I have a very close and continual example of how life is just a funny game and be reminded by him all the time not to take it so seriously. Being my father, he can be in my face every day reminding me of that...and he does.

Yet, we are friends and will always be so.

A very lazy writer

I am a writer

But a lazy writer.

A very very lazy writer.

And lazy writers don't write when they should, when the moment is ripe.

And the words fly away, far far away.

Then lazy writers are left without the words, yet still full of the longing to write.

When the Santa Anas come...

Fine.

I am finished with my denial. Last night I wore socks to bed and I am looking at new jackets to buy. When the winds roar at 60 miles per hour and the fire season starts, and I have to make sure to have allergy medication handy, it means Fall is here and I can't keep denying it anymore.

The Santa Anas are here. Good seeing you guys again. I don't have to like you guys but I am willing to accept your presence now. If it wasn't for pomegranates, I might have a big rebellion though.