Remembering Shandor the Great

Shandor and his bride (or, as my students say, "the handsome man and Audrey Hepburn")

Grandpa and Grandma's "original three"

Twotoundatuggerwidatingtiedtighttwotakesatoapandaboom!

If you can decipher that convoluted sentence, my Grandpa would be quite proud. He used to repeat this long tongue twister to my brothers and I when we were small, and then he would explain that it was actually a grocery list conveyed by a little boy who pronounced the beginning of every word with a “t.” His mother had sent him to the general store with instructions to purchase:

Two pounds of sugar with a string tied tight

Two cakes of soap

And a broom

I cannot recall whether or not the store owner figured out what the boy was trying to say, but I do remember that Grandpa was pretty tickled when I could repeat the sentence in all its obscurity.

My grandpa, christened William Edward Shandor, was a man who found joy in the little things. Whether it was a clever joke, an oft-repeated memory, a little boy’s mixed up grocery list, or an opportunity for a humorous photo, he chuckled his way through much of his life. He loved inside jokes, nicknames, vignettes, and never passed up a chance to make someone laugh. Sometimes he would kid around with a straight face: as a little girl, my mother was convinced that she really could run in between the raindrops if she kept trying.

Sometimes when Grandpa was truly serious, he would make others chuckle. Grandpa was a “dyed-in-the-wool” Democrat because he was convinced that the Dems were the party of “the little guy.” Some of his grandchildren were not exactly on his political side of the fence, and a great deal of kidding happened back and forth. Suspecting that my grandpa’s political loyalties lay less deep than his commitment to saving his pennies, I once prank called him pretending to be a member of the Sebastian Democratic Party, asking for handouts. He promptly hung up on me, and I never let him forget it! One of my favorite pictures of my grandpa is him posing bedside the life-size photo of Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter walking down Pennsylvania Avenue on Inauguration Day. Their smiles and waves are matched by Bill Shandor’s beaming face and raised hand. The “little guy” was walking beside the president. (Although, at six-foot-four, my grandpa was not exactly what you would call “little.”)

Although he was a dedicated, hard worker, my grandpa was also committed to enjoying life. He spent his retirement playing golf, participating in plays at the Theatre Guild, writing a column for the local paper, running the yearly “Shandorian” golf tournament, and even singing in a rap group dubbed “The Old Guys in the New Socks.” His rapping self-introduction began with:

“My name is Billy and I’d like to say

I might be old but that’s ok.”

We grandchildren, who only knew him in his “old days”, thought he was more than ok. He entertained us with stories (the old man with a long beard who lived in the tunnel, the time when young Bill wasted a hard-earned nickel on horrible coffee flavored ice-cream and tricked his buddies into buying another round of cones, the time when he was a military policeman in Japan trying to impress a woman with his one-word vocabulary and she responded in English); he hid quarters in his old Japanese box and swore that they multiplied in there (and then gave them to us!); he wrote letters to us when we moved away and always encouraged us to get an education, work hard, and do what we loved. He taught us to find laughter where we could---every time we walked into a local restaurant which boasted a life-size figure of Humphrey Bogart aiming his pistol, my grandpa asked us to pose with our hands held in surrender. If you find a Morrison posing with a statue or beside a road sign in a way that makes you chuckle, our grandpa taught us to do that.

Even when his health was failing and we were grown, he could make us chuckle. He once got on a kick over the old song “You Picked A Fine Time to Leave Me Lucille” and sang it all week, even serenading my grandma at their anniversary dinner! Once, when he and my brother Noah were sitting at the kitchen table, he started pretending to be a radio announcer describing the colorful life of “Mushroom Morrison”, or “Toledo Tom”---aka, my brother. Noah got right into the spirit of things, stuffed some napkins into his cheeks and gave his own rendition of his fictitious dastardly deeds in his best imitation of Marlin Brando.

Grandpa considered himself one of “the little guys”, but, once I moved to China and set up my grandparents’ wedding picture in my apartment, he took on the identity of a film star. I always laughed when my students caught their first glimpse of that enlarged black and white photo. Their eyes grew round, they gasped audibly, raised their cell phone cameras, and told me how handsome my grandpa was, and how my grandma looked just like Audrey Hepburn. I always knew that these kinds of stories could make my Grandpa smile, and so I relayed the most recent incident of Bill-Shandor-stardom in the postcard I sent him from China in the fall of 2012.

I was attending a student’s wedding in a small Chinese town, and the streets were alive with shoppers, firecrackers, and noise because October 1^st was the beginning of Chinese National holiday. My phone alerted me that I had a new email, and I opened it to read that my grandpa had suddenly passed away. It was September 30 on the other side of the world, and I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. I was unable to talk to my grandma until I came back to my city of residence, and all I could think of was: “Did he get my postcard? That would have been my last communication with him!” Postcards from China usually take a month to arrive, so I thought it was a foolish hope.

I called my grandma and discovered that the postcard had arrived the day before he passed away. And it had made him smile.

On this day, September 30, 2013, I remember a man who filled many hearts with laughter. A man who loved his family. A man who was creative, encouraging, and hard-working. A man who loved Karen Carpenter songs, old movies, and good jokes.

A “little guy” who stood very tall in the hearts of all who loved him back.

I miss you, Grandpa.

Grandpa with a few of his grandkids, 1991

A few of the grandsons 1992

One of the obligatory "funny shots"--- Grandpa made this picture happen. And Noah helped. :-)

Recently Read Books: In This House of Brede

In This House of Brede by Rumer Godden

I bought an old edition of this book since reviewers raved about the story, but Amazon customers had majors issues with the reprinted edition. This book was a unique read because everything takes place in a world apart: a convent run by a contemplative order outside of a small British town in the 1950s or so. Reading the story is to brush against an entirely new vocabulary (every position, service, prayer hour, and building carries names steeped in Latin and tradition), as well as a schedule, a way of life which seems to belong to the Middle Ages. I loved the way the author balanced this sense of mystery by making the story all about what was going on inside of these ladies’ heads, hearts, or souls. By inviting the reader into the nuns’ personal struggles, memories, and desires, the author creates a story that is warm and human.  Due to the raving reviews I read, I expected this book to make it to my list of top favorites  once I’d read it. While it actually did not make the list, it was a special and enjoyable read.

Reversed Comfortability

In these days of reverse culture shock, when I was introduced to three Chinese students, I realized that was the first time that I felt completely comfortable with strangers since coming home.

My typical interactions with strangers have been measured, careful. Should I smile at that person who passes me on the sidewalk? What on earth do I do with the grocery store man who is trying to flirt with me? I know this lady at the gas pump thinks I’m stupid; she had to help me three different times within these five minutes. Watch what others are doing; make sure you’re not doing anything strange. Don’t appear weird. I run to my mom’s car after church, terrified of standing in the sanctuary surrounded by strangers who are all talking to each other.  I’ve spent enough time being a spectacle and I run from situations that might make me feel “spectacle-ish.” I heard about the singles’ Sunday school class but I can’t imagine going there since they have lunch first. Who would I sit with? Eating with strangers? It sounds terribly awkward…and right now the last thing I want to experience is awkwardness.

But when I was introduced to those three Chinese guys, I could “read” them. Here was one who tried to let others know that he is familiar with this culture (covering some insecurity), there was another one, mildly confident,  who looked like one of my dearest students back in China, and then a newly arrived one who seemed shy and nervous and was obviously more comfortable speaking Chinese. I always feel a little rusty when I haven’t spoken Chinese in over a month, but the boys were kind and we felt a sense of safety. The names of their hometowns were familiar to all of us, not mere “strange sounds.”  Here in this circle of strangers, we shared two things that no one else understood. We had all lived the life of a foreigner in a strange land, and we all loved China.

Best five minutes of my day.

Transient Permanence

If someone would come up to me right now and ask, “What do you want?” I would reply, “I want a home.”

/hōm/

The place where one lives permanently

Still living out of my suitcases, wondering what the future holds, my heart longs for permanence. I want to put up some curtains, unpack all of my books, and never move again. But that’s hard to do when I don’t know where.

America?  Which state?

China? Which province?

Greece? (I would definitely choose that little town with all of the white-roofed homes, clinging to the side of the island.)

I returned to a previous study I did on this topic, and found my wish echoed by a shepherd-king who spent his youth “on the run”:

“One thing have I asked of the LORD, that will I seek after: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life.” Ps. 27:4

It seems like this place, the house of the Lord, is not just a physical spot (although it certainly was that as well, especially in King David’s day); it appears to be a space in which I can dwell no matter where I am.

This concept of moving permanence---I go from here to there, but stay within this home--- is hard for me to grasp. I still want curtains. I want to unpack the books boxed up for years, unwrap the porcelain dolls and puppets collected from around Asia, and cook dinner. But while I try to discover the physical answer to where, I’m attempting to learn how to settle down, rest, dwell in this intangible residence, this “house of the Lord”, this unchanging place where “even a sparrow finds a home” (Ps. 84:3a).

“Send out your light and your truth; let them lead me; let them bring me to […]  your dwelling!”  Ps. 43:3

Recently Read Books: Lessons from China: America in the Hearts and Minds of the World’s Most Important Rising Generation

 Lessons from China: America in the Hearts and Minds of the World’s Most Important Rising Generation

 by Amy Werbel

I knew I wanted to read this book from the moment I laid eyes on its description. As a visiting Fulbright scholar, Amy Werbel spent a year in China (from 2011-2012) teaching courses on American studies to Chinese university students. She wanted to train her students how to think critically, and her goal in teaching American history was not to “make the United States look better than it is—but rather to share what it feels like to be in a classroom in which everyone is free to scrutinize history without fear.” In her classroom, she and her students studied, critiqued, and scrutinized American history the whole semester. I enjoyed reading the excerpts from her students’ assignments; looking at one’s own history through someone else’s cultural lens is fascinating. I was even more fascinated at how the discipline of critiquing another culture’s history offers the honest thinker a non-threatening chance to critically examine his/her own culture’s history as well. I also loved reading her descriptions of her students and China; it felt so wonderfully familiar to me. Great book!