You Can't Go Home Again (Or Can You?): Part Two

Yesterday I began the tale of my weekend trip to visit my family back in Arizona. Where I left off, I had just arrived in town and been picked up. From there, it was a drive from downtown out to the old homestead by Scottsdale. It's said to be in Scottsdale, but I believe it's technically inside Phoenix. The neighborhood straddles the line. I don't mean to quibble or appear to desire to be in one city or the other- I just like to be exact. Anyway, it's basically Scottsdale and is definitely a suburban-type neighborhood.

The first thing that tends to happen when I go back is a tour of recent renovations that further eradicate the house of my memories. I'm not against that. The house was a work in project from the first day, and I do have the memories. It's just a bit unsettling. My room disappeared a long time ago, becoming Mom's study and studio. Were I to come home in an inebriated state, I might well wonder why my key opened the door of a stranger's house. Latest on the hit list is the back yard, which has been entirely worked over to include a variety of new amenities and features.

Vivian of Biven's Arm

Some time ago, I wrote about my grandfather Hollis, a painter and academic of some note. As he died while I was only months old, I knew him mainly from documentary sources and the accounts of those who knew him. His wife and my grandmother Vivian, however, lived until the Major League Baseball players' strike, when I was eleven. That being the case, I have many vivid memories and a better first-hand understanding of who she was as a person, and yet I realize that I don't know so well about her the things I know about Hollis.

We would go to visit her in Gainesville some summers, arriving in a rental car from the Orlando airport late at night to find her waiting up for us. When I knew her, she remained quite independent, with the exception of the things she would call on her daughter-in-law's sister's husband (my uncle) to do. It seemed that these things often were the recovery of her cat Monkey from some tough spot on the property. Monkey had been my father's cat, and eventually became hers. He (or she?) was a mainstay of my childhood, looming large in my imagination even when I wasn't there. Monkey was easily one of the most miserable creatures I ever got to know, and seemed to live to a ripe old age purely out of spite. He seemed to be Vivian's most consistent companion.

The Triple H I Knew

I have always dearly loved my paternal grandfather Hollis, or as the Social Security Administration knew him, Hollis Howard Holbrook. There's nothing surprising about that. It's fair to say that since he died fewer than twenty months after I was born, he can have made relatively little impression on me in life. My affection for him is mainly based on materials that survived him and were there for me to find years later. I'm fortunate enough that his was a unique situation in that his blood relatives were not the only ones interested in documenting his life. The reason for that is that Hollis was a painter of some note, and therefore something of a well-known figure in his time.

He never quite achieved the level of acclaim he sought and worked so hard for, but was included in two Who's Who publications and has as a legacy to survive him a considerable amount of artwork and archival material in various media forms. He attended Yale and made a living as a young man painting for a New Deal program. He begrudgingly served his country in the Navy during the war, had exhibitions reviewed in the New York Times and served as the first chair of the University of Florida art department during a fifty year tenured career. I understand the tenure came in handy, as he evidently had a way of being rather abrasive with higher-ups at the school.

Thanksgiving

I finally got into the mood to recount the Thanksgiving trip, which was spent with the greater part of my mother's side of the family. Happily, I still largely remember it. The day before my flight, I was injured during the making of a comedy video. I was at the time concerned about possibly not being able to make the trip on time, but I was fortunately able to receive medical treatment the same day and make my flight in the morning. Two of the people in charge of the aforementioned video were kind enough to drive me to Los Angeles International Airport. This is not a very good airport, both functionally and aesthetically.

Filling In The Gaps

To get back into the swing of things: Thanksgiving was really very nice. Flying is always a minefield, and managed to only step on the edge of one in getting the last flight on my return delayed. There was nothing to complain about, really. I'm only human; I'll suffer through about anything if a free Heineken is offered as a salve at the end.

Another Short

Today was another pleasant day of being with seldom-seen relatives and attempting to comply with their constant demands to eat. The energy to report everything thoroughly remains lacking, but should come before long.