Here's the final product of my multimedia project about my dad and I running in the New York City Marathon. Enjoy.
Showing posts with label Meaningful. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Meaningful. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Rest In Peace, Papa
I don't even know how to begin to write this one. My grandfather, Ted Ostrem, passed away last Thursday morning after struggling to fight off an infection in his lungs that he caught after his second surgery last week. I've never lost someone so close to me. Losing Grant's Dad two weeks ago was hard, but I didn't know him very well on a personal level. Losing my babysitter and close family friend, Anna Bonde, when I was 13 was hard too but our relationship had barely developed. The loss of my father's mom, my grandmother, happened when I was too young to remember anything about her; I've only seen video of her holding me as a baby and pictures of her with my Dad. I was not prepared for this.
At 20 years old, I've had lots of time with Papa and we've shared so many memories. I would say that the majority of them revolved around our favorite sport and our strongest connection: golf. I remember when he came out to visit and rode around with Grandma in the golf cart at Hales Location for one of my high school golf team practices. I shot 39 that day, finishing the 9th hole off with a long birdie putt that rolled right in. I remember teeing off at Glendoveer so many times with Papa and his friend, Dick. I remember his jerky swing that would send the ball clear to the right or to the left, or on rare occasions, straight down the middle. I remember his knack for scrambling for par or bogey even when he found himself deep in the Oregon trees. I use many of the tricks he used in the forest to improve my own game in those woody situations. I remember arriving at Portland International Airport so many times and seeing his warm smile fill the room when he saw us coming. He would excitedly tell me about all the golf tips he'd read about in Golf Digest that could fix his game, and how I could help implement those tools into his deteriorating swing. I remember him regaling me with tales of his holes-in-one, as he had two in his lifetime. I remember his joy for the game, and his pure sadness when he had to give it up after being put on oxygen full-time.
I remember our trips to the many different driving ranges. There was the one out in Oregon City with the giant schooner wagon. There was Hound Hollow, which closed down when I was younger. There was one out in Eastmoreland. There was one in Tualatin with island greens surrounded by water. Papa always loved watching my swing. "Straight as an arrow!" he'd say, if my ball happened to flutter straight even though it didn't go nearly as far as I normally hit it. "Look at that one fly!" he'd say, if my shot was very long but veered far off course. He always found a positive way to look at a golf shot, regardless of the result. I remember putting on his burnt orange carpet in their house on Southeast Francis. I can still hear the sound of a golf ball rolling into those little plastic cups. Papa would sit on the couch and listen for the connection of polyurethane on plastic and shout out, "Three in a row! You won't forget your old grandpa when you get to the Masters now will ya?" My own Dad always loved golf too, but I don't think I would have ever developed the deep love for the game that I have now if not for my grandfather's influence.
Another one of his favorite things to do was go fishing. I never found it all that appealing as I grew older, but I remember that we used to fish together when I was a kid. He'd teach me how to cast and where to throw the line and how to tie the bait on the lure. I remember walking down those brown rickety stairs and meeting the musty garage smell as I walked through the door to get our rods. We had a cooler completely full of bottles of Clearly Canadian sparkling water, always in either strawberry or raspberry flavor. Papa always knew where the fish were hiding. I'd like to go fishing again this summer in his memory. It's been years since I've gone out on the water to fish and I know if I do, he'll be right there beside me, guiding my line towards the perfect fishing hole.
He used to show me some of his old card tricks. He'd play Rummikub with me and Grandma and my younger sister, Hannah. He loved Grandma's cooking: he ate salads with Kraft Brand Zesty Italian dressing -- his favorite; he loved fresh turkey sandwiches with the spicy brown mustard that had a beaver on the label; he raved about fresh fish and never seemed to have dinner without it. We used to watch Seattle Mariners' games on TV and he'd always cheer on our favorite player, Edgar Martinez, and yell at manager Lou Piniella when he'd send in perpetual disappointment Jose Paniagua, a middle reliever who blew just about every lead the M's ever had in the late 90's. We'd watch the British Open almost every July when my family would visit, and I remember watching the Jean Van de Velde collapse in 1999, right as it happened.
It's still very hard to think that I won't see him when I go out to Oregon to visit. I know he struggled with his health problems and hated being away from golf and fishing, so it is nice to know that he was relieved of those medical anxieties and that he's probably playing endless rounds of golf with his old friends up in the clouds. It's also nice that I'll always have the memories of him to cherish for the rest of my life. But as nice as those things are, I still won't hear his laugh again. That rough, full-body laugh that I would hear as we watched episodes of Scrubs together. I won't see him handing me the sports page of The Oregonian at the breakfast table when I get up at Grandma's house in the morning. It's hard to imagine not hearing his voice again, whether it be cheering me on at the golf course or telling me about the latest problem with the Portland Trailblazers as we watched games together. It's too bad he won't see the team as the franchise begins to make a positive turnaround, since he always used to complain about the "thugs" and "troublemakers" on the team that brought about the nickname of the "Jail-blazers." Now, the team is young and on the rise, led by players who excel on and off the court.
Papa was a very proud man. I'll always admire the way he carried himself and kept a smile on his face even when he felt nothing like smiling. He gave me a great passion in golf and I'm so grateful for his influence on me. He always taught me that it was okay to make mistakes but to realize that it was what I learned from them that really mattered. He's someone who I'll always look up to and remember fondly in my heart. I love him so much, and I will miss him every day. Rest in peace, Papa, and save us a tee time for when I meet you up there in the clouds, many years from now.
At 20 years old, I've had lots of time with Papa and we've shared so many memories. I would say that the majority of them revolved around our favorite sport and our strongest connection: golf. I remember when he came out to visit and rode around with Grandma in the golf cart at Hales Location for one of my high school golf team practices. I shot 39 that day, finishing the 9th hole off with a long birdie putt that rolled right in. I remember teeing off at Glendoveer so many times with Papa and his friend, Dick. I remember his jerky swing that would send the ball clear to the right or to the left, or on rare occasions, straight down the middle. I remember his knack for scrambling for par or bogey even when he found himself deep in the Oregon trees. I use many of the tricks he used in the forest to improve my own game in those woody situations. I remember arriving at Portland International Airport so many times and seeing his warm smile fill the room when he saw us coming. He would excitedly tell me about all the golf tips he'd read about in Golf Digest that could fix his game, and how I could help implement those tools into his deteriorating swing. I remember him regaling me with tales of his holes-in-one, as he had two in his lifetime. I remember his joy for the game, and his pure sadness when he had to give it up after being put on oxygen full-time.
I remember our trips to the many different driving ranges. There was the one out in Oregon City with the giant schooner wagon. There was Hound Hollow, which closed down when I was younger. There was one out in Eastmoreland. There was one in Tualatin with island greens surrounded by water. Papa always loved watching my swing. "Straight as an arrow!" he'd say, if my ball happened to flutter straight even though it didn't go nearly as far as I normally hit it. "Look at that one fly!" he'd say, if my shot was very long but veered far off course. He always found a positive way to look at a golf shot, regardless of the result. I remember putting on his burnt orange carpet in their house on Southeast Francis. I can still hear the sound of a golf ball rolling into those little plastic cups. Papa would sit on the couch and listen for the connection of polyurethane on plastic and shout out, "Three in a row! You won't forget your old grandpa when you get to the Masters now will ya?" My own Dad always loved golf too, but I don't think I would have ever developed the deep love for the game that I have now if not for my grandfather's influence.
Another one of his favorite things to do was go fishing. I never found it all that appealing as I grew older, but I remember that we used to fish together when I was a kid. He'd teach me how to cast and where to throw the line and how to tie the bait on the lure. I remember walking down those brown rickety stairs and meeting the musty garage smell as I walked through the door to get our rods. We had a cooler completely full of bottles of Clearly Canadian sparkling water, always in either strawberry or raspberry flavor. Papa always knew where the fish were hiding. I'd like to go fishing again this summer in his memory. It's been years since I've gone out on the water to fish and I know if I do, he'll be right there beside me, guiding my line towards the perfect fishing hole.
He used to show me some of his old card tricks. He'd play Rummikub with me and Grandma and my younger sister, Hannah. He loved Grandma's cooking: he ate salads with Kraft Brand Zesty Italian dressing -- his favorite; he loved fresh turkey sandwiches with the spicy brown mustard that had a beaver on the label; he raved about fresh fish and never seemed to have dinner without it. We used to watch Seattle Mariners' games on TV and he'd always cheer on our favorite player, Edgar Martinez, and yell at manager Lou Piniella when he'd send in perpetual disappointment Jose Paniagua, a middle reliever who blew just about every lead the M's ever had in the late 90's. We'd watch the British Open almost every July when my family would visit, and I remember watching the Jean Van de Velde collapse in 1999, right as it happened.
It's still very hard to think that I won't see him when I go out to Oregon to visit. I know he struggled with his health problems and hated being away from golf and fishing, so it is nice to know that he was relieved of those medical anxieties and that he's probably playing endless rounds of golf with his old friends up in the clouds. It's also nice that I'll always have the memories of him to cherish for the rest of my life. But as nice as those things are, I still won't hear his laugh again. That rough, full-body laugh that I would hear as we watched episodes of Scrubs together. I won't see him handing me the sports page of The Oregonian at the breakfast table when I get up at Grandma's house in the morning. It's hard to imagine not hearing his voice again, whether it be cheering me on at the golf course or telling me about the latest problem with the Portland Trailblazers as we watched games together. It's too bad he won't see the team as the franchise begins to make a positive turnaround, since he always used to complain about the "thugs" and "troublemakers" on the team that brought about the nickname of the "Jail-blazers." Now, the team is young and on the rise, led by players who excel on and off the court.
Papa was a very proud man. I'll always admire the way he carried himself and kept a smile on his face even when he felt nothing like smiling. He gave me a great passion in golf and I'm so grateful for his influence on me. He always taught me that it was okay to make mistakes but to realize that it was what I learned from them that really mattered. He's someone who I'll always look up to and remember fondly in my heart. I love him so much, and I will miss him every day. Rest in peace, Papa, and save us a tee time for when I meet you up there in the clouds, many years from now.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
In Memoriam: Steve Eastman
I'm sorry to say that last Friday night, Steve Eastman passed away at Memorial Hospital after fighting brain cancer for almost three years. I knew Mr. Eastman through his son, Grant, who's been one of my closest friends since elementary school. I have been around the Eastman family for most of my entire life in New Hampshire, and I'd be hard pressed to find another mother, father, son, and daughter that care so much about each other and their community. I learned a lot about Mr. Eastman's life before I knew him when I read the passages in the Conway Daily Sun, but what I'd like to write about are the memories and feelings from my own experience.
I remember sitting around the kitchen table at the Eastman house after birthday parties, with Mr. Eastman always nudging me into having a second slice of cake or another scoop of ice cream. I remember sitting at that same table watching Grant and Emily laugh loudly at an out-of-place comment from Mr. Eastman, which most of the time flew right over my head. I remember working at the Eastman house, cutting and splitting wood for the winter. The work was a chore to most but a passion for Mr. Eastman. I remember stacking so much wood that day I thought we must have taken down an entire forest of California redwoods. I remember thinking, "how on earth could someone ever use this much wood in their entire life?" I remember asking Grant how long all of this wood would last and I remember his response, "Probably the whole winter." Probably?! Cutting and stacking wood was a family event for the Eastmans. It was a precise, organized operation. Every piece was cut perfectly in half to begin with, but Mr. Eastman had a knack for cutting it perfectly in quarters. I remember thinking, "If he puts this much effort into cutting and stacking his wood, it's no wonder why the Mountain Ear was always the superior local paper in the valley." I remember the shock and the twist I felt in my stomach when I heard about Mr. Eastman's cancer. I remember when the cancer went into remission and Mr. Eastman started to recover. I remember crying in my kitchen last summer after a phone call from Grant, when he told me his father was struggling and the outlook was bleak. I remember feeling better but still uneasy when he recovered from that as well. I remember when my Mom told me Sarah, Mrs. Eastman, had to stop working at Kennett to care for him. I remember two weeks ago when Grant told me his father was incapable of getting out of bed and was paralyzed on one side. I remember last Saturday morning, when I woke up and received a call from Grant about his father's passing. I remember pacing my house after the call. I remember trying to understand why this was his time, why this had to happen to two of my friends before they were even 21 years old.
I want to kick; I want to scream. It's unfair. It's not right. He was 58 years young. But it won't change. Mr. Eastman will still be gone in presence. But he will never be gone in spirit. I see Grant and Emily as strong, college-educated individuals who will go on to accomplish great things in their lives. I see Mr. Eastman's presence and spirit in them, helping them make difficult decisions throughout their lives. I see Grant working on a job with the same passion his father had for splitting wood. I see a family broken by the pain of his death but mended by the magnitude of his strength. I feel privileged to have known Mr. Eastman. He was truly a wonderful person. I will miss seeing him during my visits to the Eastman house. Rest in peace, sir.
I remember sitting around the kitchen table at the Eastman house after birthday parties, with Mr. Eastman always nudging me into having a second slice of cake or another scoop of ice cream. I remember sitting at that same table watching Grant and Emily laugh loudly at an out-of-place comment from Mr. Eastman, which most of the time flew right over my head. I remember working at the Eastman house, cutting and splitting wood for the winter. The work was a chore to most but a passion for Mr. Eastman. I remember stacking so much wood that day I thought we must have taken down an entire forest of California redwoods. I remember thinking, "how on earth could someone ever use this much wood in their entire life?" I remember asking Grant how long all of this wood would last and I remember his response, "Probably the whole winter." Probably?! Cutting and stacking wood was a family event for the Eastmans. It was a precise, organized operation. Every piece was cut perfectly in half to begin with, but Mr. Eastman had a knack for cutting it perfectly in quarters. I remember thinking, "If he puts this much effort into cutting and stacking his wood, it's no wonder why the Mountain Ear was always the superior local paper in the valley." I remember the shock and the twist I felt in my stomach when I heard about Mr. Eastman's cancer. I remember when the cancer went into remission and Mr. Eastman started to recover. I remember crying in my kitchen last summer after a phone call from Grant, when he told me his father was struggling and the outlook was bleak. I remember feeling better but still uneasy when he recovered from that as well. I remember when my Mom told me Sarah, Mrs. Eastman, had to stop working at Kennett to care for him. I remember two weeks ago when Grant told me his father was incapable of getting out of bed and was paralyzed on one side. I remember last Saturday morning, when I woke up and received a call from Grant about his father's passing. I remember pacing my house after the call. I remember trying to understand why this was his time, why this had to happen to two of my friends before they were even 21 years old.
I want to kick; I want to scream. It's unfair. It's not right. He was 58 years young. But it won't change. Mr. Eastman will still be gone in presence. But he will never be gone in spirit. I see Grant and Emily as strong, college-educated individuals who will go on to accomplish great things in their lives. I see Mr. Eastman's presence and spirit in them, helping them make difficult decisions throughout their lives. I see Grant working on a job with the same passion his father had for splitting wood. I see a family broken by the pain of his death but mended by the magnitude of his strength. I feel privileged to have known Mr. Eastman. He was truly a wonderful person. I will miss seeing him during my visits to the Eastman house. Rest in peace, sir.
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