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My Fatherās Vision,
Part I
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My father, Philip Weingarten, was born on the day, almost to the minute, that Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated, triggering the first World War. I used to joke with my father that he might be the reincarnation of the pompous, colorful, kangaroo-hunting aristocrat with the preposterous mustache and the ostrich-plumed pith helmet. As penance for his prior arrogance and ostentation, I told him, heād been consigned to live this next life as a meek Jewish accountant in the Bronx.
December 29, 2002
MY FATHER WAS waiting for me downstairs, punctual as always, smiling as usual. But when he got into the carāwe were headed to my house for dinnerāhe said, āI have a problem.ā
I am not sure Iād ever heard him use that phrase before. At eighty-eight, my father is half deaf, three-quarters blind, and 100 percent āfine.ā He has no problems whatsoever. He would not consider it a problem if, at dinner, his nose fell off into the soup. āIāve still got face holes,ā he would say. āIām fine.ā
So he had my attention, and he kept it.
āIām seeing things that arenāt there.ā
āWhat sorts of things?ā
āPeople. People with big teeth.ā
I pulled out into traffic.
āWhen do you see them?ā
āAll the time. Iām seeing them now.ā
āHow do you know theyāre not real?ā
āWell, if they were real, you wouldnāt be running them over.ā
Ah.
And suddenly, I knew.
āDo they look like cartoons?ā I asked, as matter-of-factly as I could.
āYes.ā
āAre they dressed any special way?ā
For the love of God, donāt say in military outfits.
āSome are wearing uniforms. Khakis. They have chevrons on the sleeves.ā
Several years ago, while doing research for a quasi-medical humor book I was writing, I happened upon the description of a real neurological condition so rare, and so preposterous, that even some neurologists havenāt heard of it. Peduncular hallucinosis occurs when perfectly sane people begin to see small, unthreatening cartoon characters, often in military attire. It is usually caused by a stroke or a tumor deep in the brain. Historically, the diagnosis has been confirmed at, ah, autopsy.
There might be 500 people in the United States who either have this condition or know enough about it to recognize its symptoms, and, near as I could tell, two of them were in my car.
āDo you see anything else? Animals?ā
āOnly donkeys.ā
(I feel it necessary to assure you that this is all completely true.)
My father has always been a meek manāgiven to understatement, reluctant to assert himself, content to let others set agendas. And yet he is also the most practical and centered person I have ever known, blessed with a peace of mind I envy. Because worry is counterproductive, he simply banished it from his life. When I dropped out of college with three credits to go, and proceeded instead to infiltrate a teenage street gang with some vague notion of writing about it, it was my father who persuaded my mother to get her head out of the oven. He said I probably knew what I was doing, and, to my motherās astonishment (and mine), he was right.
Throughout my adult life, my father has remainedāeven now, in his fragile winterāa bedrock of patience and reassurance upon which can be balanced the most fanciful of ambitions. On this unyielding ground, no plan I ever made ever seemed rickety or unsafe. Iāve never feared risk.
āHow long have you been seeing these things?ā
āTwo days now.ā
āWhy didnāt you tell me sooner?ā
Silence.
āYou thought you were losing your mind.ā
āThat might have bothered me a little, yes.ā
We dined that night on false cheer. Afterward, as I was walking him to the car, my father froze in his tracks. He wouldnāt budge. I felt his arm trembling.
āThereās a hole in front of me,ā he said. āA deep pit.ā
I assured him it was level ground, but he would not move. My wife came out and gently took his other elbow. Trust us, she said. So my father closed his eyes, took a breath, and stepped out into the abyss.
The next day we went for a brain scan. No tumor, no stroke.
My father doesnāt have peduncular hallucinosis; his is a similar conditionāequally bizarre, but not as rare and not as direāthat sometimes afflicts people who lose their eyesight late in life. The hallucinations are identical.
āYou canāt see, and your brain is getting bored,ā the doctor told my father, āso itās filling in the blanks.ā
That brain of hisāstill as sharp as yours or mineāis doing a splendid job, churning out images his ruined eyes can no longer provide. Colors are brighter, movements are more distinct, and the details he seesāwedding rings, epaulets, facial expressionsāare precisely the things that long ago disappeared for him into a blur.
And the people! I suspect it reflects well upon the human species that when our brains are freed to create a world of their own design, they deliver happy mischief. His cartoon characters resemble the work of R. Crumb, my father said, and the Katzenjammer Kids, and Tom Tolesās chubby little bureaucrats, and Goofy the dog. Buckteeth everywhere. (They donāt say anything, but if they did, it would probably be some variation of āgawrsh.ā)
āCould be worse,ā said my father.
How?
āThey could be frightening.ā
True enough. In the world of cartoons, pain is funny, and no one ever dies.
He was studying something on the floor. I asked what it was.
āA person.ā
Whatās he doing?
āFloating down to the ground, using an umbrella.ā
Sometimes the hallucinations go away, the doctor had told me, and sometimes they donāt. Mostly, people simply learn to navigate this strange new world.
āYou know, Pop, these people might be with you for a while.ā
āI know,ā he said.
We were walking to the car.
āSo Iāll move around them. Or wait for them to move a little. Iāll be fine.ā
There is a small pivot point, I think, where meekness and courage are indistinguishable.
āWhat are you seeing right now?ā
āRFK Stadium.ā
āWhere?ā
āThere.ā
It was a man, walking a dog.
My father shrugged, smiled. He sees what he sees.
We drove in silence for a bit.
āNow Iām seeing cardboard signs on the side of the road. With Hebrew letters.ā
āWhat do they say?ā
He looked at me like I was crazy. āYou know I canāt read Hebrew.ā
Of course, of course. What was I thinking? My father is eighty-eight, and he canāt read Hebrew, and he is not losing his mind, and he is not dying, and RFK Stadium is on a small street corner in Bethesda, Maryland, where it will likely remain for some time.
Everything was fine, just fine.
We rode off together, unafraid.
Snowbound
When I was an editor, I once issued a challenge to five writers: Hammer a nail into a phone book, then go write a great profile about whomever the nail stopped at. The idea was to test the old maxim that in the hands of a skilled journalist, absolutely anything can be a story. My five writers did splendidly; they proved it correct.
That was the basic principle behind āSnowbound.ā Iād been on a plane, leafing through the maps in the in-flight magazine, when I saw the silly-sounding name āSavoonga.ā It was a flyspeck island off the coast of Alaska, in the Bering Sea, not far from Siberia. It was nowhere. It would be populated by nobodies. When my plane landed I called my editor and proposed that he send me there the following week, still in the dead of winter, with no preparation at all. Not even a minute of research.
āWhy?ā he asked.
āJust let me do it. Itāll be funny,ā I said.
He did. It wasnāt.
May 1, 2005
LETāS SAY YOU were looking for a vacation destination in winter. And also, that you were out of your mind. You might pull out a map of Alaska, locate Anchorage, and then let your eyes roam north and west, across mountain ranges, through millions of acres of wilderness, until you ran out of dirt. You would be in Nome. Nome: the last outpost, Babylon on the Bering, famously dissolute, said to be home to the desperate, the disillusioned, the hollow-eyed, the surrendered, the exiles, the castaways, the cutthroats, the half dead and the fully juiced. Nome, the end of the Earth.
Only it isnāt the end of the Earth. You can see that, right on the map. To get to the end of the Earth from Nome you would have to hop a small plane and head 130 miles out into the Bering Sea, where you would land on an island so remote that it is closer to Russia than to the U.S. mainland. To the people of Siberia, this island is the middle of nowhere. On it, according to the map, is a village named Savoonga.
Savoonga. Va-voom. Bunga-bunga. Funny, no?
I thought so, too, when I first saw it. It gave me an idea for a funny story. In the dead of winter, I would pack up and blindly head to Savoonga, unannounced and unprepared. No research at all, no planning beyond the booking of a room, if there was one to be had.
The whole thing was an inside joke, one with a swagger. It is a journalistās conceit that a good reporter can find a great story anywhereāin any life, however humble, and in any place, however unwelcoming.
That is how photographer Michael Williamson and I came to be in a small commuter plane in late February, squinting out onto a landscape as forbidding, and as starkly beautiful, as anything weād ever seen. Land was indistinguishable from seaāthe white subarctic vista, lit to iridescence by a midafternoon sun, was flat and frozen straight to the horizon. The first clue that we were over an island was when the village materialized below us. It looked as negligible as a boot print in the snow, the grimy, nubby tread left by galoshes. The nubs were one-story buildings, a few dozen of them, and that was it.
Iām back now, trying to make sense of what we saw, trying to figure out how to tell it. Itās all still wi...