It's too bad dad couldn't be around to see this. He was all about the Harry Potter series, and enjoyed the movies a great deal. I remember telling him about one of the particularly awesome scenes from the fourth film, and he was so into it. He asked about some detail, to see if the scene had been true to the book. It was very cool to see how excited he was. Of course I knew how much he loved the books, since he discussed how clever J.K. Rowling is, and what neat troves of treasure each of her novels is. For as long as I can remember (probably for longer than I've been alive), he was all about The Lord of the Rings books. He mentioned them fairly often, and I got a sense for them well before I ever picked them up. This was not unusual, my dad included works of literature--great and crummy, notorious and obscure--in lots of conversation. But the Harry Potter series really captured something in him, as it clearly did in a lot of people, and he loved to re-read the books for subtler, missed pieces. I never read beyond the first book, but from his excitement, I was pretty into it.

So, I'm sad he didn't get to live to see the whole series get put up on screen. He would have watched this trailer many times.

An age gap closed

When I was a little kid... I'm gonna guess in the 4th grade, my school bought a huge Lego set, presumably because it would be a really fun way for the students to learn about problem solving, direction following, schematic reading, and spatial recognition. As the kids receiving this gift, we were just completely thrilled. The Lego set was a giant pirate ship. Maybe if you know Legos, you know the set. It was probably two feet long, and about as tall, and it was really complicated, and full of fascinating details. As all the best Lego sets are.

Well, after playing with the set a bit (the older kids got to play with it more, so I mostly stayed at the sidelines and drooled), I went home and poured all my Legos on the floor, and fantasized. I had lots of Legos, and I even had the pieces from an amazing castle set. Oh, it was sweet. Yeah, I had a lot of great toys, and specifically, I had quite the collection of Legos. Still, I didn't have the pirate ship, and I wanted it, really really badly.

Enter my dad. He had dished out the money for most (if not all) of my Legos (and the rest of my belongings, for that matter), and I think the idea of me not being happy with what I had irked him. He listened to my woes, as I sat on the beige carpet in my room, and then he did something he didn't do very often. He lied down on the carpet next to me, and he proceeded to build me a pirate ship out of the Legos I had. He tapped into this raw creativity, this childlike ability to play with toys, in a deeply productive way, and he made me a ship. It was genius. It had a below deck and an upper deck. It had masts. It had a crow's nest, a captain's bridge. It had a recognizable for and aft. It was a Lego ship. And it was great. My dad understood, the way very few adults care to, that the whole point of Legos, is that they can build anything. He saw no point to spending another $80 on new Legos, when I had so many, I could probably recreate our house in 1/1 scale. Most parents would probably understand this, in theory, but in practice, they would just suggest I build a ship, or whatever I wanted. But he built it. He summoned all his little boy spirit, and he made my toys do things I could barely comprehend.

The ship dad built, can I say, was hilariously colorful. It was designed only with shape in mind, and not color, or, really, style. But can I tell you, I didn't give a shit. It looked beautiful, as far as I was concerned. I played with it for months. MONTHS. Many many adventures were had, and before long, it was a modern day ship, with Navy officers, or perhaps cruise ship employees manning the decks, in place of pirates, privateers and British officers.

I was a creative little kid, if I do say so. I was resourceful, and I got a lot of bang for my parents' buck, when it came to toys. My imagination was pretty powerful (it still is, but I don't get to run around, making explosion sounds with my mouth, like I used to... what a pity). But somehow, I thought small when a big expensive toy like Lego was shown to me, by the massive ad firms that be. So, when that little hitch was unkinked by my dear dad--when he got down on the floor with me and played better than I--it remade me. I saw my toys as brand new building blocks, into fifth-dimensional worlds of lord knows what. And, not to put too fine a point on it, I saw my father as a really fun, smart, energetic person. He may have been acting frugally, but it was with complete love and energy and creativity that he connected with his son.

Thank you, dad. You are amazing.

Deep sigh

That first day, down at mom's (and dad's), I called work to let them know what had happened and that I would be away from work for a few days. My boss completely understood, and seemed really shocked. He felt pain for me, and it made me feel like I had support out there. Subtle, but good.

Well, my boss, Bill, emailed the entire store at which I work, and let all my co-workers know. It was a very simple, sensitive email, and it caused several co-workers to call me and text message me, to provide more support. I'd like to share those here, because they meant a lot to me. They were a really big part of that day.



1:17 PM, Leslie: "I'm very sorry to hear about your Dad. You & your family are in my thoughts & prayers. -Leslie"

Erin: "Hi. Um... J just got the word--found out... um... just, J just wanna let you know that I'm here for you and everyone is okay and... If any of you guys need anything just let me know or you need me to talk, to just let me know. You can call me--I'm at work, though--but I guess I'll try and call back later. I'll talk to you later. Okay. I love you guys. Okay, bye."

1:46, Steve: "Max I am so very sorry. My thoughts are with you - if there is anything I can do pleae ask. I mean that. -Steve"

2:18, Ryan: "I love you, dude. I am here 4 u if u wanna talk."

3:13, Shawn: "Really sorry. Let me know if you need anything. Shawn"

Jesse: "Hey man. Um... Shawn called me from your work said you might be going through some crazy stuff right now... um, yeah, dude. If you need anything--you need to talk--anyone, anything... Anything, man. Just, um, call me, man. Anything you need man... I'm sorry, man. Thats gotta be horrible. Later, man."

Jacob: "Hey Max, uh, Jesse just told me what, uh, what happened and I just wanna say, if you need anything, you can call me or just wanna talk or whatever and uh, I'm so sorry."

7:04, Toby: "Max I love you buddy. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you."

11:36, David: "Max, I just heard. Give me a call if you want to talk. Jonelle and I, and all of the rest of us, are here for you."

1:17 PM, Morgan: "I'm sending you guys all my energy. Love, Morgan"

Stacey: "Hi, this is Stacey. Um... I was just calling to find out how you're doing, and if there was anything we could do, um, I hope you know that we're there for you and we're thinking about you... Everybody at work is. Um, I don't know what to say, you know... how that is, I'm sure. Um, but just please know that we're thinking of you and if you wanna talk or anything, please give us a call--but otherwise don't feel like you have to be in any hurry to return this call. I just wanted to check in with you. Okay, take care. Bye."

David: "Hey, Max. This is David. I just wanted to get in touch with you and see how you and your family are holding up, and, uh, I want you to know that Jonelle and I are here for you if you need anything just please let us know. Um, I hope to hear from you soon."

7:48 PM, Katie: "Whatever r souls r made of, urs & mine r the same. -Charlotte Bronte-"



When I type all this out--transcribe the voice mails, especially--I'm struck by how language fails us during these extreme times. Each of my friends were filled with sadness and concern and confusion. They were overwhelmed. And they wanted to express that--wanted to pour that brimful of emotion into me, in the form of love. But the only tools they had were words (and of course tone of voice, which often said much more). The words meant relatively little, because I knew what they were attempting. What they said wasn't so important, and what I heard wasn't so important. It was the desire to embrace your loved ones when you see them hurt. That was what I got. And it felt sad and kind and amazing. I'm so deeply thankful for that love.

There's another thing going on in those messages that I felt for my own family. Something somewhat more selfish (though certainly not negative). There's a degree of fear we have when this happens. Fear, because we have no control over these great things. We have only a tiny glimpse of what actually just happened. So, we move closer to those who have gone through the same thing. They wanted to do something with their own fear. And that may sound like a bad thing, but it's very human, and so it's very comforting. When my friends drew closer to me, I drew closer to them.

The same thing happened when my sister and her family came into town. I had been away from mom for a few days, and I wasn't feeling sad, necessarily (though I was from time to time, certainly), but, instead, I was feeling... kinked up. Uncomfortable. Like too many thoughts were trying to express themselves, and they were all getting caught. Like my brain and heart was just misfiring a lot. I felt crabby and useless. But when I saw Clea and Tony and Sophie, and saw mom again, and we all spent time around each other, things in my brain unbent. I calmed, and felt peace. The only place where things felt right was very close to my family--because they were the only other ones who had gone through the same thing. Like a support group--although we didn't talk all that much about what had happened. We didn't need to.

Out in the real world, when the whole world wasn't as broken as I was--and as consoling as my friends were--I was almost confused. Didn't everyone I passed on the street somehow know that my dad had died? Shouldn't the street be softer for a while--shouldn't life be easier on me for a while? It was a strange sensation. And it was only when we pulled together that I felt okay.

Things are much better now, certainly. I'm still sad when I think about how much he deserves to still be alive, and healthy and happy. But I'm okay. We are all fairly normal again. It required all that love. All those messages. All that love.

Sunday

We had the service for my dad on Sunday. It was good. My uncle Randy organized it (by my request), and hosted it. He did a really good job for someone who wanted to cry the entire time. I did too, and I'm not sure I would have done any better. The biggest thing was the slide show, which I'll try to upload some form of. It hit me pretty hard. Seeing my dad, as a person... unto himself... was amazing. Watching him move from chapter to chapter, within his own life... into the realm of "my father". It was bizarre seeing so much of his life play out in front of us, about which I really had no idea. I mean, I listened to the stories he told. I knew the basic path of his life... but to see it. To watch him form baby to kid to college grad to man to father of one to husband to father of two... and then finally into the man I remember... It was overwhelming. I realized I was mourning the loss of someone much greater than I knew. Could know. Afterword, Randy asked people to share memories of dad... and I wanted to stand up... say a thousand things. Let everyone know who he was, to me. But I just sat there, unsure of how I would even start. Instead uncle Randy and uncle Jack went back and forth with memories of their childhood... some of the stories were familiar... I could have listened to those stories all day. All week. It was like basking in the sun.

When I was in high school, we were asked to make a predictive time-line for our lives, and I went into a certain level of detail in hoping what my life would turn out to be. Looking back at it now, and comparing is both funny and a little sobering. I put in conjectural dates for my parents' deaths and funerals (not out of morbidity--they were both set to live into their nineties, as I recall), and mentioned that each one had a beautiful service. I think I was imagining something epic. Poets giving readings, full orchestras playing suites that represented their lives, and fireworks, or 21 gun salutes or something. I wanted trees to fade from green to brown, rain to come and go on cue, and the earth itself to weep.

None of this happened, of course. As much as what actually happened made sense--and was good--I think, somehow, dad deserved even better. I am so appreciative of Randy's hard work--it was wonderful what he did, and how it all played out. And I'm so thankful for the family and friends that showed up and hung out. But, ya know. It could never have been enough for him.

These Native Lands

The day I learned he'd died, I rushed down to Olympia to be with my mom, and to try and react. I am still reacting, because it's such a huge thing to wrap my head around. I think it's bigger than me, bigger than any real, literal thing I could ever encounter. Mom and dad are the architects of me, and I am the center of my own universe (as we all are), so in a sort of indirect way, my parents are gods.

I had a dream once, years ago, that my parents lived in a home built in a cave that was beneath a desert. During the day, my dad was the sun, and he made the day and lived above the desert. When the sun set, he came down and went down into the cave and took off this ritualistic mask he wore as the sun, and hugged my mom and hung out with her. Then, she put on her own god mask, and went up into the sky as the moon. She made the night, and watched over the desert while the nocturnal animals came out. It was a really spiritual dream... like something from Carlos Casteneda, and it affected me a lot, for a long time.

When I was trying to get a hold of what I was feeling, sitting there with mom, I thought of that dream, and realized how completely central to me they both are, and how I hope he feels how directly connected to him I have been, and remain.

...

Mom and I took a walk that evening, and in the road near their house (her house) I spotted a little lizard.



Somehow, it seemed like a good omen.

Precious memories

One night, when I was probably 7 or 8, dad and I stayed up late, after everyone had gone ot bed, and talked. Maybe I woke up again and found him up (this was the norm). But I'm not sure since what I am sure of, is that the living room lights were off. It was just him and me, in the relative darkness and silence of night. And what did we men discuss? What father to son wisdom did he impart on lil' Maxy? Dirty jokes.

As though he'd been waiting until I was old enough to reveal it, he had a massive cache of dirty jokes! And, of course, they were the kind of jokes kids love. Lots of jokes about poop and farts... lots of limericks where the characters were anthropomorphic turtles and rabbits and eagles... it was grand. Imagine my awe, as farty old dad pulls ace after naughty ace from up his sleeve, and in a hushed tone, recites these juvenile gems.

My favorite? Well, there was the classic "Here I sit, so broken-hearted/Tried to shit but only farted...", and the story about the mouse being eaten by the owl, not knowing what has happened, and peeking out form the owl's butt to find himself hundreds of feet off the ground... But the one that stuck with me, for my whole life, the one I repeated to all my friends (in similar non-chalant "respect my dirty joke genius" tones), went like this:

The night was dark
The sky was blue
And down the alley
A shit-wagon flew.
It hit a bump
A scream was heard
A man was killed
By a flying turd.

That one will always crack me up. Maybe it's the surreal image of a "shit-wagon" flying, which, in my over-imaginative brain meant that a covered wagon, filled with shit, was floating a few feet above ground, and drifting slowly down the alleyway. Not until years later did it occur that maybe he had meant it to be going really fast. And the eerieness of having the night be dark, but the sky being blue: a deep blue, as if the sun has only just set... but the town in which all this takes place is surely empty, save for the random, doomed passerby. It's a magical poem. I think it has affected my style of story-telling and film-making.

Dad was good at relating to me on that wavelength. He could be stinky and dorky and even if I rolled my eyes and tried to be above all that (something I deeply regret now), I was grinning and giggling inside. Farts are funny. Poop is funny. Dad knew this better than most. If I ever have children, you can bet they'll know, by heart, the legend of the man-slaughtering shit-wagon.

More on Skid Road

Mom found this booklet that dad wrote, back on the Skid Road Community Council. It says what they did much better than I could. I think it's very cool that he wrote all this. I mean, he was really at the core of that amazing service.


Front and back cover:




Pages 1 and 2:




Pages 3 and 4:




Pages 5 and 6:




Pages 7 and 8 (I think the woman on page 7 might be the receptionist dad talked about a little):




Pages 9 and 10:

To see with eyes unclouded by life.

I wonder what the other side is like. I've always been curious, but unsure if it even existed. Unsure if it was even the right question. In the end, it seemed like a useless thought. I can never know what death and the afterlife is, until it happens, and then I won't wonder. As soon as the question matters, it will be answered. And, satisfied with the koan-like self-completion of that thought, I moved on.

But now, well, I know someone who knows. Someone who I have always been able to talk to about anything. Someone who would let me discuss such existential questions, and who would respond very thoughtfully. I have never not been able to say to my dad "what was that weird thing like?". So I feel like I should, now, too. I feel like my ear is pressed up against the wall between here and that next plane of existence. Like I've been walking alongside someone, and we're both alongside a big lake, and when they suddenly got pulled into that lake, and they're underneath it now... that maybe I instinctively reached after them, and my hand got wet. I know I'm not to go swimming yet... but I'm standing here, in the sudden silence, looking at a wet hand.

Is it wonderful over there? Not for me--not yet. For you. Are you having an amazing time? Do you even define "amazing" the same way? I figure "time" means very little to you now. Are you still an individual, or have you become water in that silent lake? Are you aware I'm writing to you, and thinking to you... or does my "too little too late" love get across the air waves?

Dad was a very profound person, but it was always in a prepared, professorial way. I get the feeling he's like a little kid again, right now... and I'd love to see that.

Skid Road

in the 1970's, my dad created a non-profit organization in downtown Seattle called the Skid Road Community Council. It was essentially a team of people who sought out homeless people, on the streets of Seattle, and brought them in. They were given a room, usually in downtown's Morrison Hotel, a job was often found for them, and a life was generally put up around them. They were counseled in how to use that new life, and stay off the streets. Dad helped hundreds of homeless men and women, personally in many cases, as well as managing the office to keep the system in place so that he didn't have to do it all himself. He met with the city council to get funding, and to improve how the police dealt with these kinds of situations.

He used to tell me stories about some of these people... how he could be walking down the street
and someone who he'd let into the sort of hostel they had set up, would run up to him, and yell "Mr. Bruce! Mr. Bruce!" all happy to see him. Dad would go to hug him or shake his hand--ya know, respond to this man's joy with his own--and the man would fake like dad was attacking him!

"Ahh! No! Mr. Bruce, no!" And people would look...
"What are you doing?!" my dad would say to the guy (I can't remember his name, but dad knew him pretty well). The guy would just start laughing and patting my dad on the back!

When dad told this story, he would sort of smirk and shake his head. It still freaked him out that people on the street would have thought he was attacking this crazy guy. Cracks me up.

I guess dad had to kind of strong arm guys, too. He'd be in his office when his receptionist's ex-boyfriend would walk in and start threatening her. Dad would walk out and have to talk the guy down. This guy was huge and angry. My dad was a normal looking guy, and had only his will power to push the guy out of the office. I can't imagine. But he did it. He was in charge.

My dad would tell these stories to me, to the family, and it was just his life. There was no boasting that he had somewhat-single-handedly improved hundreds of lives. I would say "that's amazing, dad, you are a major part of Seattle's history." and he'd say "yeah... I guess that's true... Chicago's, too."

"What?"
"Oh, I marched with Dr. King a decade before."
"...Oh."

Another cool thing about Skid Road, dad hired on an office assistant, somewhat late in his seven year stay there, and when it seemed they had a strong mutual attraction, they figured maybe they shouldn't be working together. She left Skid Road so that she could marry him. That was mom. I love that story.

=max

Goodbye, dad. I love you a lot a lot a lot.

Bruce Lenmark Zielsdorf was born in Eu Claire, Wisconsin on November 12th, 1940. He died in Olympia, Washington on May 5th, 2008. 67 is too young, though he accomplished a lot in that time. This blog, commandeered by his son Max, is going to explore some of those accomplishments, mostly through people's memories of having known him.

I'm currently going through his stuff with my mom. She wants to do some of it by herself, which is totally understandable, so I'm taking care of the things I can. Namely, cleaning our his email inbox. He was a somewhat cluttered man, and if it hadn't been for my mom's meticulousness, he may well have descended to squalor. So as I sift through 12 thousand mostly useless emails I'm feeling a little creepy. Like I'm looking through his eyes, seeing the things he saw everyday.

I told him I loved him about a billion times, but it couldn't have been enough. It's only been a day and a half, and I miss the bejeezus out of him already.

More to come soon. I promise it won't only be sad. I have a lot of funny, exciting, weird, sweet stories. This is the way I know to celebrate him.

=Max