The Blind Feeding the Lame: Growing Disabled with Dad * Essay & Live RISK Performance

This essay about the very different experiences my father and I had growing disabled first appeared at Catapult last June. I performed a storytelling version for a live taping of the Risk! Podcast, which aired in December in an episode called “Quality Time.” Scroll down for the performance followed by the essay.

I republish both versions here in honor of my father, Lee Goodin, who died a year ago tomorrow. It was, however,  a year ago today that I received the call that told me he was dying. My stepmother had used his phone to call and so when I answered, I was prepared to receive birthday wishes, but instead received her no-nonsense, nurse-practitioner announcement that he was in the hospital and not coming out. So my birthday on August 18th and his deathday on August 19th are forever linked in a two-day bittersweet celebration of life.

You can read more about my dad in my personal obituary for him and get a taste of his writing in this post that includes three of his many letters to the editor published in the San Francisco Chronicle. But for now, please indulge my need to tell you about our respective disabilities and the joy of sharing delicious food and booze no matter the obstacles…

Performance

Photo of Leona Godin on the large Bluebird Theater stage taken from the balcony. She stands alone with a mic and her cane, Moses, wearing black and sunglasses.

Essay

Now my dad is disabled. The military man, the world traveler, is in a wheelchair. A degenerative neurological disease has turned his feet into blocks, his hands into mittens. But we still can drink together, his blind daughter finding herself singularly helpful in these new circumstances. In his kitchen, where his wheelchair cannot fit, I slosh Beefeater into glasses, and, with directions called out from the dining room, I locate the pâté, the crackers, the Dijon mustard, the knife, and return to the table, not realizing that a strange moment of intimacy, such as we’d never shared before and will likely never again, is about to take place.

*

I barely knew my father from the time I was three, when my parents got separated and then divorced, until I was nineteen and surprised us both with a visit.

While I grew up in San Francisco with my mother, he was stationed in Thailand, Turkey, Italy and Germany. I saw him twice during those years. I believe the first time was when he and my mother signed their divorce papers, perhaps I was five, and we took a ferry ride in the rain to Sausalito. We went into a glassblower shop and that luminous fire magic took my breath away. He bought me a glass Cable Car and a bird. My mother drove him to the airport and I have a memory of waving to him until he disappeared. Immediately I crumpled to the floor, and I remember the feel of that Ford’s floor and the look of the child weeping as if I could be the protagonist and spectator both.

The next and last time I saw him as a child, I was nine. My grandmother died and he returned to San Francisco for the funeral with his new wife. Not long after that, I started losing eyesight. It was just the beginnings of the eye disease that would eventually make me blind. For decades after diagnosis, I was visually impaired, and it was as a visually impaired person that I met my father again, after several years of dwindling correspondence had resulted in us finally losing touch.

*

The night before we were to set out with our giant backpacks for a three month Euro-Trek, my best friend called to tell me that she had fallen off the wall at Ocean Beach. She’d been drinking a farewell bottle of cheap wine with her boyfriend when her hat blew off. Reaching for it, she’d slipped. “I hurt my knee,” she told me and said that it wouldn’t change a thing. It turned out she had torn a ligament, and that fact changed everything.

At that time in the early nineties, plane tickets to Frankfurt were among the cheapest, which is how we ended up flying into the city next to the town of Wiesbaden, where my father was stationed. Upon arriving in Frankfurt with my crippled best friend, in the early morning hours, with the lurid airport porn shops and bar that served us, the foreignness was overwhelming. They’d given me a wheelchair to push her and our packs around, but once we left the airport, how I’d get her anywhere came crashing down. I decided finding the bus to the Wiesbaden military hotel was the only viable option.

For the next two days, my best friend did nothing but lie in bed and moan. Once I tried to go out by myself but it was a disaster. My low vision made it impossible to carry out any plans, as I couldn’t read street signs or bus numbers or maps–this was long before GPS and iPhones helped to level the playing field for visually-impaired travelers. Although I’d had no intention of contacting my father, and probably wouldn’t have if my best friend hadn’t been out of commission, I’d agreed to take his number.

If large black letters were set on a small expanse of nothing–a 4X6 index card for example–I could still read using my peripheral vision. With a cigarette in one hand and trembling fingers, I dialed the number. I listened to the foreign ringing until the voice, somehow still unmistakable as my dad, picked up, and I said, “Hi Dad, It’s me.”

“Oh hello.” He may have even said, “Hi kiddo, what’s up?” Apparently unruffled.

I said, “I’m in your neighborhood and thought I’d give you a call.”

“What neighborhood?”

“I’m in Wiesbaden.”

He asked if I had plans for the evening. I looked over at my best friend prone on her little twin bed, and said that I was pretty open.

A year or two ago, after my dad was put in the wheelchair but before his chronic infections had progressed to where they are now, during one of our pleasant “liquid lunches,” I asked him if he’d had forewarning about my arrival from my aunt and uncle. It had suddenly occurred to me, after all these years, that his nonchalance could have been attributed to them mentioning my trip to Europe. He assured me that he had had no idea that I was coming, but that being career military primed him on being prepared to deal with unforeseen events.

On our first father daughter date, we went for dinner, which was a miracle of conviviality. We smoked and drank wine and talked as if no years had passed, no childhood lost. We held hands in the misty streets and he kissed me goodnight. Such is the strangeness of the human psyche, that the exhilarated bounding I did down the enormous, crystal-dripping hallway of the hotel built for international delegations–at that late hour empty but for me in my exuberance of finding a father–sits in my heart alongside one or two of the most romantic moments of my life.

*

After my dad and his wife retired, they moved back to the states, first to a tiny town in California’s Gold Country, where he became mayor, and then to his native San Francisco, where he still lives. As I turned from a visually impaired person into a blind person, my dad metamorphosed from an able-bodied person into a disabled person. The neuropathy progressed from the soles of his feet up to his knees, and from the tips of his fingers halfway up his arms, leaving him without sensation. When he stopped being able to feel the pedals of his Jeep, he had to give up driving. His wife continued to work as a nurse practitioner. She still works and goes to the theater and travels, while he has degenerated into helplessness.

They’d been accustomed to go on grand vacations for over thirty years–to more than a hundred countries and to all seven continents, and now she does these trips by herself. Putting my dad in what he calls “my kennel”–a small group home for elderly people in Pacifica.

It saddens me that for several years, my dad has spent his days sitting in his wheelchair, afraid to venture out alone, reading the newspaper and watching Netflix, all day while she’s at work. On more than one drunken occasion, he told me, “If I thought I could manage it, I’d shoot myself in the head.”

*

Nearly 1 in five Americans have a disability, and the vast majority are older people, according to the U.S. Census. When I was visually impaired, I never thought of myself as disabled–the very idea of it would have been insulting. As I’ve aged into my disability, both in terms of acuteness and familiarity, I’m proud of being a marginalized group on the rise. Proclamations of non-discrimination pertaining to diversity still do not often include disability, but that is slowly changing. Unfortunately my dad is of the wrong generation to benefit from this change. I hope to live to see it blossom.

Disability is the one variety of diversity that can strike anybody at any time, so why not prepare people to embrace it as difference rather than affliction? This shift in attitude will likely benefit you. At the very least, it may help you cope with your end of life disabilities, or those of your loved ones.

Having started on my road to disability at a young age, I feel strangely equipped to deal with what’s to come. In his 1911 essay “The Handicapped,” Randolph Bourne insists on the benefits of growing up and into oneself and one’s (dis)abilities:

When he [the handicapped man] has grown up, he will find that people of his own age and experience are willing to make those large allowances for what is out of the ordinary which were impossible to his younger friends, and that grown-up people touch each other on planes other than the purely superficial. … He will have built up his world, and have sifted out the things that are not going to concern him, and participation in which will only serve to vex and harass him. He may well come to count his deformity even as a blessing, for it has made impossible to him at last many things in the pursuit of which he would only fritter away his time and dissipate his interest. He must not think of “resigning himself to his fate”; above all he must insist on his own personality.

Even after more than a hundred years have passed since Bourne’s essay appeared anonymously in The Atlantic Monthly, it seems to me that we have yet some growing up to do. When will we finally recognize ourselves as precariously able-bodied, tending towards disabled, instead of constantly comparing ourselves to some mythical potent youth?

*

Last night my dad called to tell me that he’d made his decision. For almost a year he’d been facing the choice to either cut off the feet that keep getting terrible infections from wounds that do not heal because of his lack of feeling down there, or continue to get infections that will hasten his death. He reminded me that when we’d first had this discussion, I said to him, “The choice seems to be your feet or your life.”

It had struck me as obvious. But he’s resisted all these months, and yesterday brought finality. “I’m saving my feet and sacrificing me.”

Although the choice has been complicated by his weak heart that might not survive the amputation surgeries, it has always been more than loss of life that frightens him, I think. He prefers to die whole and intact. The idea of being footless would irrevocably launch him into the land of the disabled.

“No heroics,” his wife had told me last week, I think to prepare me. “He’ll go home and get what’s called palliative care.”

I was meant to understand that route was terminal. My dad confirmed it in a subsequent conversation.

“When do you go home?” I asked.

“Maybe a week, maybe a month,” he told me, “but don’t get your hopes up. It doesn’t look favorable. Don’t dwell on it.”

Between his nurse practitioner wife and his no-nonsense attitude all the conversations in the past weeks that touch upon his death, up to and including last night’s, have been singularly devoid of tears. It feels strange even to write about this finality with no surface emotion. I know that the loss of my dad will be painful, but I also know that he’s not been living the life he loves for a long time, and that the ground has been laid for all of us to let him go. Besides being world travelers, my dad and his wife had been avid skiers, avid theater goers, avid devotees of the good life, and I had, through many transcontinental cocktail conversations and on my bi-yearly visits, enjoyed that with him. I will miss our liquid lunches and our drunken conversations, but I know that he is already missing so much more.

*

I place the pâté, mustard, breadsticks, prosciutto, crackers, a knife, a plate, and lots of napkins on the table, my dad directing my movements. “There, yes, put it there. Open that prosciutto.”

He had once been a wonderful cook–the sort that took pleasure in serving up multi-course meals for ten or twelve intimates–and so this fumbling with food in front of him provokes more than a little self-consciousness. I do my best with the butter knife to slice the thick Trader Joe’s plastic, muttering a narration of my efforts, though he can see my progress perfectly well. I finally get a hole in it and rip the rest. “Now what?”

He informs me that the prosciutto must be wrapped around the breadsticks, like flesh over bone, and we get to work.

“Ah, shit” he says, and I hear a delicate snap. These are dainty breadsticks, no thicker than my pinky. Without feeling in his hands, all digital movements must be guided by sight alone with no tactile input. Hence, it’s awfully easy not to know one’s strength in the way of breadsticks and crackers.

I on the other hand complement this lack with my tactile-heavy relationship with the world. I ask if I can make him one, and he agrees.

I take a thin breadstick and a thin slice of prosciutto and dexterously roll it up. It is much easier than rolling joints or burritos. I hand it to my dad who smacks his lips. Then I make one for myself and I smack my lips. We continue for a few rounds.

I ask what the plan is for the pâté, and he instructs me to take a cracker, spread pâté on it and top it with Dijon. I do this and try to hand it to him. But, not being able to see, I cannot put it in his fingers, and not being able to feel, he cannot grab it without cracking it in two, so after a few frustrating attempts, and much pâté lost in the effort, we hit upon the expediency of me holding the cracker in the direction of his face, whereupon he grasps my wrist and shoves the cracker (and sometimes my fingers) into his mouth.

We do this over and over and the gin helps us forget the unsanitary way in which I grip the knife and thrust it first into the pâté  and then into the mustard and sort of push lopsided toppings back onto the crackers with my fingers, which, nine times out of ten end up in contact with my dad’s mouth. And each time he grunts his approval in a closed-mouth yum-yum kind of way, I know I will never forget the way he let me help him –at least for a few minutes–enjoy one of his last tastes of the good life.

“LEE GOODIN, SAN FRANCISCO” Dad’s Letters to the Editor, 2007

On the first anniversary of my father’s death, I’m grateful to my stepmother for sending me three of his letters to the editor, clipped from the San Francisco Chronicle. One of them—from August 19 , was published eleven years to the day before his death. It’s humor apparently hit the mark, as the editors used his words “erector set” to title the section. My dad was not alone in abhorring the proposed building sketches, he just said it best! This letter and the others remind me how much he changed in his last years, and how much he stayed the same.

Once, during one of our “liquid lunches”—sitting for hours drinking (and eating) in the window booth of Fior d’Italia—which we indulged in every time I visited San Francisco, he mentioned that he had an idea to put all his letters to the editor together and write a book around them. I encouraged him, but did nothing to forward the ambition. A couple years later, when he was feeling much more downcast, much more sedentary, and house-bound (except for Fior downstairs and the doctors), I asked him about the idea, and he shrugged it off as something that was no longer interesting to him, or no longer possible. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to fulfill that particular book idea, but at least I can share his words here.

In the three letters from 2007, his interests range from the homeless to the monstrous aesthetics of a planned skyscraper to expressing his fears about a radical conservative court—a painfully prescient thought.

In these concise bits of his politics, my dad’s witty and reasonable voice talks to me from his tumultuous watery grave in San Francisco Bay, reminding me that, although in his last years he took little pleasure in the arts or travel that he’d once loved so much, he never stopped thinking about politics at the local and national levels.

To be sure, since 2016 at least, things were going in a direction that once would have made his blood boil, but at the end just kept his mental state set to a slow burn. The upshot being that his impending death seemed less dire than it might have if Trump had not soiled the White House.

My dad had his opinions till the end, even if he lost some of his fighting spirit. As you can read in my personal obituary for him, or in this essay I wrote a few months before his death. In his last years, his body made war on him, and there was not a lot of energy left for politics. Even so, his interest could not be extinguished. There was at least enough curiosity to know how bad things were going to get him out of bed every morning—despite the considerable pain—and into his wheelchair. Then he’d belly up to the dining room table, where he’d spend hours grumbling and griping over the newspaper in his endearingly grumpy way.

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR – MONDAY, JULY 9, 2007

Battle of the activist courts

Editor – August Goddard’s comparison of a “conservative activist” court with a “liberal activist” court is a typical knee- jerk reaction by those who would have us return to some dark medieval fantasy world (Letters, “The Supremes and ‘a living Constitution, ” July 6).

The liberal court always moved our country in the direction of more civil rights more freedoms. A court unlike the Bush/Cheney-appointed court that will be chipping away at those hard-won rights and freedoms for the next 20-to-30 years. I hope Goddard enjoys living under a Constitution rewritten by the extreme religious right. I shudder at the thought.

LEE GOODIN
San Francisco

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR – Sunday, August 19, 2007

An Erector Set

Editor – Regarding the Transbay Terminal high-rise proposals: Unlike John King, The Chronicle’s urban design writer, I guess I don’t understand what the neighborhood needs.”

His selection, the Rogers design, looks like the contractors forgot to remove the construction elevators-giving it an “erector set” appearance, and the thing on top looks like an apparatus in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.

The other two designs look like screwdrivers and would give the city a San Diego-look—the locals call their downtown “the toolbox” because the Rogers Stirk Harbour buildings all look like chisels and screw- drivers standing point up (except one that looks like an electric shaver). At more than 1,200 feet in height, any of the proposals would become a tempting “terrorist target.”

LEE GOODIN
San Francisco

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR – Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Advocates aren’t helping

Editor – Regarding “If you want to help the homeless, just say yes,” by C.W. Nevius (Dec. 23): Once again, the Homeless Coalition and other so-called homeless advocates prove themselves to be part of the problem.

Are they professional “do-gooders” whose own means of support relies on maintaining a homeless population? Or are they amateur “feel-gooders” who are clueless as what needs to be done other than handing out blankets and passing out turkey sandwiches? Homeless and poverty have become buzzwords to cover a variety of individual situations. A family temporarily homeless because dad was “downsized” or they had catastrophic medical bills is different than the individual described in the column. He was homeless in front of a liquor store that cashed his check (for a price) and then gave him the remainder in bottles of cheap booze. In the first instance, normal social services can help the family to recover; there is an assumption that they are willing and able to be helped. In the latter case, the chronic alcoholic (who had an income) needed some “tough love”: detox, placement in one of the mayor’s full-service hotels and on-going rehab. Instead, he ended up dead. Nice going, homeless advocates.

Care Not Cash needs a big dose of tough love to get the chronic homeless off the streets and into appropriate settings to deal with their myriad problems. If it takes changes to the law in order to move them off the streets into appropriate environments, then let’s get busy on legislation that will do just that.

LEE GOODIN
San Francisco

A Personal Obituary for My Dad, Lee A. Goodin, February 5, 1940-August 19, 2018

My dad, Lee A. Goodin, passed away into other realms on Sunday. He’d been fighting so many illnesses for several years, and yet I hadn’t seen the cardiac arrest coming. Somehow, I thought I’d have warning. Yet he had given me warning.

Earlier this summer, he told me he’d decided to stop aggressive care for the infections that riddled his body from wounds that would not heal. I wrote about that decision, as well as our history of separation and reacquaintance, for Catapult in “The Blind Feeding the Lame: Growing Disabled with Dad.”

I wanted to show that essay to him, to show my love and that he would live on in my imagination, in my writing, and of course, in my heart forever, but I was a chicken. I was afraid he wouldn’t like how personal, how intimate, it was, and so I never sent him the link. I will never know if I made the right decision.

The fact remains that I have written about my dad and will continue to do so.

He once told me that he thought there was a great American novel in our family somewhere. He liked that I was a writer, but did not particularly care for the kind of writing I did. He loved his bestselling Kellermans, and I have not yet brought myself to read one of those. I will now though.

If there is a great American novel in our family, then there is no one else to write it but myself, because our family, at least for a couple generations, has dwindled down to me. He has cousins, who I’ve met through the wonders of Facebook, but my father was an only child and so am I. My parents were divorced when I was very young and my dad remarried, but did not have other kids. My family, my next of kin on my dad’s side, is now gone. And I, being childless, will provide no more.

My dad, Lee Goodin, with chickens in Visitacion Valley, San Francisco, early 1940s.My dad’s mother, Leona Goodin, née Beynon, and her husband Alcidos Goodin, née Godin, likely would have had lots of kids, but Alcidos, a construction worker who helped build the Golden Gate as well as the Bay Bridge, fell off the Rincon Annex, the old main post office in Downtown San Francisco, and died four days before my father, his son, was born. Between that and the fact that the first few years of my dad’s life were lived in wartime, there was something tragic about his early stars, as testified to by the wartime photo of my dad with chickens in the wilds of San Francisco.

However, he grew up as the darling only child, and would enjoy a wonderful life, traveling the world, skiing, drinking, eating, trekking around seven continents.

A man doesn’t need religion or spirituality to be loving and generous

A couple years back, he and my stepmother Terry celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary in their North Beach home next door with their extended Fior d’Italia family that includes the owners, the wait staff, and the revolving musicians of the jazz band that plays there every Wednesday and Sunday. The bandleader asked, “What’s the secret to your successful marriage?”

My dad, sitting in his wheelchair, Beefeater in hand, said, “world travel, fabulous adventures, and great sex!”

My dad was an irreverent and irreligious man. If I write that novel of our family, at the heart of it would be the atheism gene that I inherited from him. He had no religion, and in fact was rather anti-religion. One of his favorite movies, or at least one that he liked to talk about a lot, was Spotlight, about the Catholic Church’s cover-up of priests’ who couldn’t keep their robes down. Even that sentence sounds like something he would say.

But a man doesn’t need religion or spirituality (which he also scoffed at) to be loving and generous.

Once, at Fior, I asked my partner Alabaster to give some money to one of the waiters to buy a bottle of wine for the table. I think it was Gil, who, when he saw Alabaster’s intent, put his hands up and backed away as if he were looking at a gun rather than a couple twenties, saying, “Oh no, not Lee’s table.” In other words, if my dad was there, he was buying.

I now live in Denver, so there’s not much I can do in this strange limbo time before the services–which will be held on Labor Day weekend–but think and write about my dad, and celebrate who he was as a living being, and what he means as a spirit in me.

When my dad went into the hospital for one last short trip, I happened to be reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for perhaps the fourth or fifth time in my life. Yesterday I came to the end and the afterword, where Pirsig drops the bomb about how his son Chris, who made the trip cross country in the book’s narrative, had been stabbed outside the Zen Center in San Francisco just five years after the book had been published. The part where Pirsig wrestles with the question of where his son Chris went took on new meaning for me. My dad, like me, believed in only this one life, but perhaps he could get behind Pirsig’s idea of the pattern of a person:

What had to be seen was that the Chris I missed so badly was not an object but a pattern, and that although the pattern included the flesh and blood of Chris, that was not all there was to it. The pattern was larger than Chris and myself, and related us in ways that neither of us understood completely and neither of us was in complete control of.

Now Chris’s body, which was a part of that larger pattern, was gone. But the larger pattern remained. A huge hole had been torn out of the center of it, and that was what caused all the heartache. The pattern was looking for something to attach to and couldn’t find anything. That’s probably why grieving people feel such attachment to cemetery headstones and any material property or representation of the deceased. The pattern is trying to hang on to its own existence by finding some new material thing to center itself upon.

My dad, Lee Goodin, and I, in a post-dancing pose, at his 60th birthday bash in Amador City, where he was mayor!I think my writing this as well as all future generations of writings about my dad, attempt to continue the pattern that is and will always be my dad, Lee Goodin.

Peruvian gold

It was the spring of 2017 when Alabaster and I visited and my dad, not yet imminently dying, but also aware that he was not going to have a long time to live, asked if there was anything I wanted. Terry and he had been collecting wonderful objects from around the world for years, but he was, I understood, referring to the things he’d inherited from uncle Art, his mother’s younger brother, who’d been like a father to him, who had been an engineer in the gold mines of Peru.

Remembering the glimmering little figurines that I’d so often seen at Uncle Art’s that sat in a lighted display box of a gold bird and a gold man, I mentioned those. I’m blind now, and hadn’t seen them for many years, and I’d never touched them. My dad directed Alabaster to take them down from the shelf. They were in plastic domes, and we pulled them out. I almost crushed the little man when I tried to pick him up because I never realized they were hollow. They had seemed so solid when I was a child. I’d never suspected they were made of very delicate hammered gold.

It was a strange time to be bequeathed something so valuable. Alabaster and I were basically homeless. We’d left New York and were moving around, staying with friends and family, deciding where to settle next. For almost a year, I lugged these priceless weightless and bulky heirlooms from California to Colorado to New York and back around again, with my dad periodically asking if I’d found a safe place for them.

And, being a researcher at heart, I wanted to know about these things, so I started shooting off emails to museums and appraisers, and getting either no response or non-committal ones that sent me somewhere else.

Finally, we found a Pre-Columbian art appraiser in England, and sent off about twenty photos of the little bird to her.

Two days later, we received the valuation and its notes. ” These animal and mostly bird sculptures came out of a workshop in Lima which was active between the 1950s to late 1960s run by an Italian expatriate,” and was worth about $10-$20.

That was in April, and we went for our last visit in June. I’d alluded to what I’d finally found about the statues, or what had become of them, over the phone, and told him I’d tell him all about it when I saw him in person.

Peruvian "gold" bird, my inheritance misfire from my dad Lee Goodin.

He wasted no time in asking. On our first lunch in our usual table at Fior d’Italia. He said, “So what happened to the statues? You still have them?” He thought I’d sold them, which I might have, or I might have tried to get them back down to Peru, where they belonged. I didn’t know, but the point was now moot.

I took a big breath, put on a big ironic smile, and told him about the appraisal. Alabaster said his face showed shock. Then he expressed doubt that Art, a gold minor and amateur archaeologist, would have been duped about buying fake artifacts. And I said what I’d been thinking. “None of us asked about them. We just all assumed the beautiful little sculptures were real gold Pre-Columbian artifacts, and he let us keep on thinking that.”

Then my dad laughed, and said, “Ah, that old bugger. I bet he’s laughing at us all right now.” It was the only such indulgence I’d ever heard my dad make about some possible afterlife. Then he told us about how Art liked to play jokes on people, and that sounded familiar. He and my aunt Evelyn also did not have kids. They were my only relatives on my dad’s side that I knew growing up, after my Grammy Leona had died when I was ten.

At the end of the Peruvian Gold conversation, I asked if maybe I could choose another heirloom, like “what’s behind curtain number 3, cuz I got a dud,” and we laughed hard at that. It was a very good last visit.

Under the bridge

My dad, Lee Goodin, and I on a boat on the San Francisco Bay.As I said, my grandfather Alcidos was a construction worker whom my dad never knew. He had been born in Minnesota to French Canadian Godins, who were one of the original Acadians who settled in Canada in the 17th century, and then were displaced when the Brits took over. Some of the Acadian Godins moved to Quebec–if you play guitar, you may have heard of the Godin maker, and others moved down to Louisiana to become Cajuns. Others moved south into Maine and then westward, as my Godins did, and settled in other parts of the US. My Godins settled in Minnesota, which is where Alcidos Sinai Godin was born in 1910.

At some point in his travels from Minnesota to San Francisco, Alcidos added another “o” to Godin to make it Goodin, because, as the stories have it, he was tired of being called God in, rather than the French way, which pronounces it like French sculptor Rodin.

If you were wondering why my dad is Goodin, and I’m Godin, it’s because, with his blessing, I reclaimed the French spelling. That said, he never got used to me taking my middle name, his mother’s name Leona, for my primary name.

I wrote a fanciful tale about all this, called “Likenesses: A Family History Through Photos, Real and Imagined,” which was originally published at FLAPPERHOUSE. I brought the zine to him and he read, with me next to him. When he’d finished he said, Katerina wasn’t a seamstress, she was a barmaid.

My dad wanted to be cremated and strewn into his beloved San Francisco Bay, under the bridges his father helped to build. I’ll be traveling back to say goodbye to him for that ceremony on September 1, followed by a celebration of his life at Fior d’Italia on Sunday September 2. His band will be there to play his old favorites, which, tended towards the dark. He loved his lighthearted musicals, but he also loved “St. James Infirmary,” and would delightedly snap his fingers to the macabre lyrics every time.

I miss and love you dad. See you on the Bay.

 

Helen Keller Quotes Explosion

Star of Happiness promotional shot. Godin kneeling in silver and black with loop pedals. Cathryn Lynne Photographer.You kneel on the floor with two loop pedals in front of you. Above you hangs a projected red curtain and an empty spotlight. you say, “Oh, fuck it,” and hit one of the pedals, which causes The Star of Happiness theme song instrumental interlude to play.

“I was born with a degenerative eye disease called…” you hit the loop pedal twice quickly in order to catch “cone-rod dystrophy.”

“This means that, since I was ten years old, I’ve been going very slowly blind. I’ve occupied many positions on the sight/blindness continuum. I’m more blind than sighted now, but it’s not always been like this. Perhaps for you, going blind is the scariest, or at least one of the scariest, things imaginable. For me, thinking about losing another sense, especially hearing, is really scary.

“When I started reading books by and about Helen Keller, I suddenly developed a ringing in my ear. It was likely psychosomatic. (Wouldn’t have been the first psycho symptom I’ve exhibited.) Around that time, I had a dream: I was Helen, in the last years of her life when she was confined to bed by old age illness. We were insensible to sights and sounds As she had almost always been, but now, unable to move, we were deprived of the incessant, impulsive force that had launched her, a crazy deaf blind caterpillar, feelers electrified and electrifying, meteorically into a world that could not get enough of her, and of which she also could not get enough.”

Behind you on the screen, images of Helen from earlier in the show slowly spin around the projected spotlight, then break away.

“Now, after living nearly ninety years of a life that included such varied occupations as…” you pick up “political activist” and “vaudeville performer” into the loop and continue, “and ” after World War II, after America dropped bombs etc., she became an officially sanctioned, unofficial…” you catch up the following into the loop, “ambassador of American peace and good will,” and continue. “Two million Japanese welcomed her when she visited decimated Nagasaki and Hiroshima. They loved her that much!

“but my dream was set in a time past all that, so that I experienced what it would be like to have a sensory existence that extended no farther than the cocoon like bedding in which we were wrapped. Excepting slight tremors and vibrations through the floor, And the occasional touch of an attending hand…” you hit the loop pedal, “THERE WAS NOTHING.”

“However, in the double visioned way dreams sometimes unfold, I was trapped in her immobility with her and seeing her inert body as if it were an out of body experience, without much height or distance. The perspective was split: both inside feeling out and outside looking in.

“The in-body perspective was that of the cornered small animal trembling with the desire to escape, that of the suddenly quadriplegic wishing impotently to die, that of the tongueless victim left alone to tell her tale.

“While the out of body perspective was that of the achingly detached observer, that of the nonsensical buzzing fly, that of the sole audience at a wake. From here, the bed on which we lie, appears, in my mind’s eye, to be a tabula rasa, our body a lumpy virgin landscape.

“But this is my nightmare, not Helen’s. Helen believed that there was an eternal, heavenly, fully sensing body waiting for her to step into after death.”

You hit the pedal and pick up what Helen says, “It gives me a deep, comforting sense that things seen are temporal and things unseen are eternal.”

You say, “Now she is the star of happiness to all struggling humanity.”

Helen says, “Alone we can do so little, together we can do so much.”

You say, “If Helen Keller fell down in the woods would she make a sound?”

Helen says, “I was strong, stubborn, indifferent to consequences. I knew my own mind well enough and always had my way, even if I had to fight tooth and nail for it.”

Helen says, “I am not dumb now.”

You put down the mic and hunch over your workstation on the floor. You feed Helen Keller quotes from one pedal into the other, adding to the increasingly chaotic mix. Above and behind you in the projected visionscape, images likewise become disjointed and frantic.

Helen says, “Every one of us is blind and deaf until our eyes are opened to our fellow men, until our ears hear the voices of humanity.”

Helen says, “It is not required of every man and woman to do or be something great. Most of us have to be content to take small parts in the drama of life.”

Helen says, “I seldom think about my limitations, and they never make me sad. Perhaps there is just a touch of yearning at times; but it is vague, like a breeze among flowers.”

Helen says, “I really care for nothing in the world but liberty, liberty to grow mentally and spiritually, untrampled by tradition and arbitrary standards.”

Helen says, “Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.”

You hit the loop pedal one final time and the theme song plays its refrain, “Wonderful star of light wonderful star of light wonderful star of light…”

You are done. you look up into the audience, then crawl stage left as if you will exit, but stop at the edge to sit and apparently observe the strangely calm cycling of looping fragments. The soundscape grows louder while the lights, almost imperceptibly, grow brighter, until the stage and the audience are drenched in artificial light.

Crescendo.

Whiteout.

THE END

Star of Happiness promo shot. Godin in silver and black bent over loop pedals on the floor. Cathryn Lynne Photographer.

Likenesses, A Family History Through Photos, Real and Imagined

My story Likenesses, about love after death, was first published in the Spring 2016 issue of FLAPPERHOUSE.

You can hear a fun interview with me discussing the writing of it with the smart and charming Ilana Masad on The Other Stories Podcast, episode 63!

 

And, if you like to listen to your literature…

 

[1981]

 

When they found Leona’s body it was curled about an old grey cat, also curled and stiff. The funeral director’s assistant (who did all the dirty work with the fluids and convex plastics to keep skin from sagging, while the funeral director–the artist, he called himself–fussed with lipstick and wigs and hands folded just right) said he’d never had such a hard time prying two bodies apart, said he’d almost given up and buried them together, “but of course one can’t find a casket shaped like that.” He was telling his cronies at the bar after work and they all laughed to hear how the cat’s stiff paws would not let go of the human hand. “The thing that gets me is how they must have died at the same damn time,” he said and drank his whiskey dry. “That’s some crazy bond.”

 

[Mama and Papa, 1910]

 

Mama was born Katherina Wiget, of the original Canton Schwyz Wigets who boasted a family crest of gold wheat on a field of blue. If she had been a joyous child, nobody in America knew, for her unhappiness blossomed with her youth when she was unceremoniously shipped off to distant relatives after her father married a younger woman to replace her dead mother (the young wife having no use for her predecessor’s children). At age twenty, Mama found herself working as a seamstress in St Louis, where she met Albert Beynon , another Swiss, but from the other side. He spoke no German and she no French. Their common language was their adopted tongue of English.

A young and charming rake, whom the Americans called Frenchie, Papa worked as a mechanic on the ford Model T for much of Leona’s childhood, first in St. Louis and then in San Francisco. Not the factory type, Papa managed always to steer clear of the assembly line, working independently as a mechanic who fixed cars for the youngsters who’d grown up wanting them, not making them. Having apprenticed in Geneva in the early days of the internal combustion engine, he was a tinkerer at heart. If he had not the temperament nor genius nor entrepreneurial spirit of a Ford or a Benz, he shared with them a great facility for putting things together and taking them apart, as well as a soft spot for the new and ingenious which found expression in his trade of mechanics and his hobby of photography.

In Leona’s photograph of them, Mama dwarfs Papa, whose head is nearly level with (and not quite as big as) her enormous breasts. Dressed in calico, she seems painfully aware of how ludicrous they must appear in the eyes of posterity and hence refuses to meet our gaze. She stares off camera and away from her husband. For his own part, Papa adored posing for pictures almost as much as he loved taking them. Hence he looks directly into the camera, seeming almost to delight in his new wife’s embarrassment. The result is a portrait of a couple whose eyes’ trajectories form an acute angle, symbolic of their married life.

 

[Papa, 1923]

 

Papa left on his first solo sojourn when Leona was thirteen. She cherished the photograph he sent back in which a swashbuckling Papa wearing tilted hat and lace-up boots is surrounded by otherworldly trees with knotted flowered arms that stretch to the sky, on the back of which he wrote, “6 November, 1923, Mojave Desert Love Papa.” Leona felt not the least resentment towards him for leaving (Mama felt enough for the two of them) and rather admired the rugged jauntiness of his likeness, as well as the cleverness of the timer-camera and the hand-built automobile, which, though they did not make it into the frame, add greatly to the charming picture of independence.

As the ’20’s roared along, Papa spent less and less time in San Francisco, so that when the Crash of ’29 hit, his absence was more fixed than his presence. The sporadic letters wrapped around small bundles of cash had also grown scarce then vanished altogether, but by then Leona was a woman. She took jobs cleaning Nob Hill houses to help support the family, which also included her little brother Arthur who, being eight years her junior, was almost more son than brother.

Mama had a tyrannical disposition which, if it were not for Leona’s being her equal as a workhorse on the one hand and impervious to black moods on the other, would have made the double-mother household unbearable. As it was, the two balanced each other out, and raised Arthur with much discipline and coddling respectively. Arthur rewarded their ministrations by being the first in their family and their acquaintances to go to university. Good at math and eager to travel the world like Papa, Arthur studied mining, a subject which had, since the Gold Rush days, become a marvel of science and engineering, while it maintained its adventuring mystique.

 

[Alcidos and Leona, 1939]

 

Working and helping Mama to Raise Arthur had left Leona no time for socializing or finding a husband until Arthur went to work in the Nevada City mines and began sending money home. By then she was no longer young–nearly thirty–so of course she thought herself very lucky when she found Alcidos at the William Tell, where they offered Swiss fare and nightly dancing.

Alcidos Goodin, of French Canadian ancestry, was born with surname Godin, but followed in the footsteps of several of his twelve elder siblings by adding the additional ‘o’ in order to avoid the unfortunate American pronunciation. A construction worker who followed WPA jobs from Minnesota to San Francisco, Alcidos proved a perfect gentleman and a brave worker too. He’d helped build the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge as well as its younger and more splendid sister span, which had opened just before Leona and he met. Alcidos would have good, if dangerous, work for years to come. Best of all, he also loved to dance and wanted lots of children.

Unlike the portrait of Mama and Papa, the photograph Alcidos and Leona had taken at the Golden Gate International Exposition shows two bright-eyed smiling faces, serene and confident in their future happiness together.

Thus, as you might imagine, the first time Alcidos returned, Leona did not recognize him. She was so big, the baby due any day, that she mistook him for an angel. She had been resting for a moment on the little back porch of their new home in Visitacion Valley, when the hummingbird flew to her and hovered, drenched in sunlight. Her heart sang with joy. The baby would be swaddled in love and happiness as voluminous as any babe could want.

It was not long after that, friends of Alcidos who had been working on the job with him, and his foreman knocked on her door. The darkness that encompassed them chilled her. It was an unthinking certainty of doom. Probably the foreman spoke first, clutching his hat, “How sorry we are to have to bring you this sad, very, very, sad, dreadful news…And, especially as you are in your condition, Mrs. Goodin…We are not sure how it happened…” He did not want to say it right out. He wanted to prepare her.

Strangely, she was suddenly the calm one. She asked, “My husband has been hurt?” Their hesitation and furtive glances told her what they could not say. “Alcidos is dead,” she whispered, to herself or them it didn’t matter. They were relieved. They continued as if it had been one of them that had braved the evil words. Leona let them prattle on, condolences and regrets piling one atop the other, a rubble heap as tall as at one of their construction sites.

Others, tongue-tied or talkative, came and went. The parlor filled with the sounds and scents of birth and death. Gifts of baby booties and tiny crocheted hats sat alongside impossibly dense clusters of flowers and baked goods. Cards of happy congratulations mingled with those pronouncing sorrow. Mama took care of her in the four days between death and birth, and remained with her thereafter. Alcidos Goodin Junior (Alci) was born while his father rumbled away on an eastbound train; his family wanted to bury him in their Minnesota plot. Leona was too shocked by the first loss to protest the second, but it developed that his body was inconsequential.

 

[Alci, 1942]

 

Alci’s first years passed while the Second World War raged in Europe, and many in Visitacion Valley (which resembled more closely the ranch it had once been, than it did the rest of San Francisco) went back to their roots to survive. One day Mama came home with a crate of chickens and soon thereafter bartered eggs for goat’s milk from the neighbors across the fence.

In this way, Alci grew up chasing chickens and looking, with his hand-me-down brass-buttoned coat and handmade knit cap, “just like Papa as a boy,” said Arthur chuckling, and snapped a picture of the funny little Old World child. When she saw the photograph Leona thought how her son had been born in mourning and was being raised in calamity, but that somehow his cheeks remained flushed with a happy rosy glow.

It was around then that Leona recognized her husband in the figure of a chicken. He had not been one of those Mama had brought home but rather sauntered into their yard from nowhere it seemed, and made himself right at home, laying more eggs than the other three together. Leona couldn’t say for certain when she recognized the chicken as her beloved husband exactly, but when it came to her, she’d known it as a fact. She’d felt that her dear Alcidos hovered near, watching over them, almost from the moment her son had been born, but now it appeared to her as a comforting and certain truth, as if an unseen hand gathered in all that was good and kept everything else out. From her moment of revelation, Leona lived with the father and the son in a trinitarian paradise, while Mama hung in the background like a reliable, if disagreeable, clock.

 

[Alci, 1958]

 

After the chicken Alcidos returned as a dog. Actually two dogs. Alci found the first on the street on his way home from school. The pup grew monstrous in size and in his devotion to Alci. For a few years he was bigger than the boy, and the two were inseparable. The second, a spotted brown runt, Leona herself found sniffing around her front stoop petunias. Leona realized that although Alcidos wanted to watch over his son, he understood that the boy had become a young man whose every care was not about pups. It was Leona who mostly took care of the second dog and she was grateful that it was small, almost no trouble at all. Her husband seemed to be conforming to their ever-changing situation.

During high school Alci (or as he preferred, Al) was hardly home. When he did come home, he merely patted the dog as he went to his room and on his way out again. He was very popular in school, a yell leader surrounded by other fine young men and a bevy of pretty cheerleaders. He told her, “yell leaders are as popular as football players but without the bruises.”

In his graduation picture he wears a sweet smile and glasses that enlarge his hazel eyes, twinkling with a touch of the devil, just like Papa.

Alci graduated from SF State with a degree in sociology and, after bouncing around the city with a few odd jobs, decided to join the military. Leona could not be surprised; the wanderlust was in his blood, but her future loneliness and uselessness blanketed her in a black fog. She forced herself to play a part, acting happy although her heart was breaking. A handsome young officer off to see the world, She did not want to dampen his excitement. On the day of his departure, his taxi arrived and she kissed him goodbye. When he was truly gone, she crawled back into bed and indulged in self-pity for the first and only time in her life.

All were gone and it was February. The previous February had seen the death of Mama. In February, twenty-three years earlier, her husband had died and her son had been born. How many anniversaries can a person cram into one dark month? She lay in her tiny creaky bed and cried until she could not cry anymore. She watched the ceiling turn gold to black. Looking back on that day with no little shame she thought perhaps she had feared her husband would leave too.

That night, Alcidos visited her as a man. He walked into their room just like he had done in the short precious year they’d had together so long ago and lay down next to her. She nestled into him and he folded her into his warmth. They did not talk for a long time and when they did it was in whispered breathless phrases punctuated by sweet kisses. He told her how he’d been walking the roof of the Rincon Annex, whistling a silly medley of popular “baby” tunes: “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby,” “Yes Sir That’s My Baby,” “When My Baby Smiles at Me,” “I’ve Found A New Baby,” and thinking of his wife glowing with their baby inside her.

“I was in bliss over the idea of having two babies to love when my foot stepped onto a loose board in the scaffolding. Heaven knows how many times I’d stepped on just such rickety things before and not gone tumbling over the side like a klutz! I worked on the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay Bridge and it was a post office on Market Street that did me in!” He chuckled and Leona let out a little laugh that turned right into a sob. He continued, “That time I went flying because my mind was not on my work but on my love. Do not cry darling Leona,” he hugged her tighter, “for it was meant to be. You see, I have been able to stay with you and our boy all these years. I have always been here whether or not you have recognized me.”

“Will you go overseas with Alci?”

“I will be with you forever.”

When Leona woke the next morning, her eyes were burning and she felt bereft of her husband all over again, but then she washed her face and bustled about the house, cleaning and humming those happy songs from between the wars.

That evening, when she opened her kitchen door onto the back porch, a tabby cat came running in meowing. She laughed and picked him up and kissed him on the head. Then she opened a can of tuna for him. That began the age of the cats.

 

[Alci and Demi, 1968]

 

Alci returned home to San Francisco, which he had done periodically through the years, but this time it was for a purpose. He planned “to get hitched.” He had received a promotion and, after five wild years in the Far East, would be living on a base in Virginia surrounded by families. He told his mother, “A wife is vital in a place like that. Everyone will be married. A nice girl will keep me out of trouble.”

He took the old high school sweetheart, whose name was Demi, out a few times, then got drunk one afternoon and called her at The Emporium where she sold cosmetics. Leona almost dropped the dish she was drying when she heard him say, “Do you have a dowry? A dowry, yes. How much will your father give me for you?” The wry smile could be heard in his voice and the woman seemed to understand he was joking, for Leona could hear her laughter through the phone line before she hung up.

She called him back though, and they went for dinner that night. Alci returned home with her and announced to his mother that they would drive to Reno on the weekend to tie the knot.

“You’re eloping? Can’t we at least have a party?”

“There’s no time Ma. I ship out next week. When we get settled, we’ll fly you out.”

In their wedding portrait Demi wears a white lace mini-dress with a hem appropriately short for the times and startlingly prophetic regarding their marriage. The bride appears shy, perhaps embarrassed by the brevity of the dress and the recent courtship, while Alci looks like a rooster preparing to crow.

 

[Michelle, 1976]

 

After five years of military sojourning and the creation of a girl child, they separated. Alci called to say that the marriage was kaput. It was a distant event since they were stationed in Holland, but still Leona felt it to be dreadful: the slow dissolution of her parents’ union by inherent unsuitability, the abrupt termination of her own by tragedy, and now the divorce of her son–Were the marriages in her family under some kind of curse? No, she decided, Alcidos and she were different, for their love tethered them despite universal laws.

One wonderful repercussion resulted from the breakup; the wife returned to San Francisco bringing with her the granddaughter. For that Leona was grateful. Michelle, that was her granddaughter’s name, was as clever and eager to please as Alci at her age and it was a joy to have her around. Whenever she visited, she would ask, “Where’s Kitty?” and would poke around until she found him. (Leona had named all the kitties Kitty so as not to slip up and call them by her dead husband’s name and cause people concern for her.)

Michelle loved to run around the house trailing string for the cat to chase. Leona chuckled at the way Alcidos teased his granddaughter. He clutched at the string and jumped and pounced. Then just as the little girl ran down the hallway, he pretended to lose interest so that she was forced to peer around the corner to see where he was.

Leona had a camera of her own now, a Polaroid Instant that her son had given her, and managed once to catch that sweetly expectant expression. After the image emerged, Michelle asked if she could put it up on the mantle with the other photographs, which stood like sentinels in little gilded frames.

 

[1981

 

Her last cat grew all white about the whiskers while he waited patiently, watching as Leona taught Michelle how to make Christmas ornaments, pancakes and apple head dolls. The little girl grew, but had not yet reached an age to leave her grandmother when her grandmother left her. One evening Leona lay on the couch curled around the cat, the cat curled around her hand, when she whispered into one furry ear, “Please Alcidos, do not leave me again. Take me with you this time.”

Above on the mantle, the family photographs would remain, innocent of death, the likenesses nearly as slender as the life lying coiled before them.

FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE, for accordion and volcano

[“Fire Fire Fire Fire” was first published at Quail Bell Magazine]

Met you yesterday, but it doesn’t matter

That the world looks flat from a bird’s eye view

Cause I felt the climb, and I feel the height,

Even though I’m surrounded by a thousand plateaus.

 

Met you yesterday, but it doesn’t matter

We fell for each other out of space

If this morning it finds us in our place beneath the skies

Tomorrow sets us down on our separate sides, it’s ok.

 

FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE

 

Met you yesterday when the world was young

My heart was ablaze with constructive fire.

Now look at those rivers, they retreat from my desire

For fear my heat will suck them dry!

 

Watch those oceans smolder in all my lust

Waters vaporize into clouds of dust.

See the earth she crackles under salty dunes

Tears of fire streaming down her face.

 

FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE

 

Met you yesterday when the world went out,

My soul felt as brittle as a shell

Chaos ruled then with Eternal Night

And Sin and Death embraced me, yeah!

 

Met you yesterday when the world went out

When Light hid away in her cave

But I felt her then, I still feel her now

Even though I’m surrounded by a thousand sad souls.

 

 

Inspired by Thomas Campion’s 1601 “Fire! Fire!”: