A Standard of Relation

I'm going to share the words of a very special guest today: my big brother, Joel. He took on the extremely difficult task of delivering a eulogy on behalf of our family at our dad's funeral a few days ago. I am grateful to him for shouldering a responsibility that I would not have been strong enough to bear. He did it so perfectly. I could think of nothing to add or to subtract.

In Remembrance of Severt Ole Score

November 22, 1928 - July 26, 2014

a eulogy delivered by Joel K. Score, July 30, 2014

 
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Mom and dad tell me that when I was three I said I was going to be a pastor so that I could talk in church. I wasn’t sure I would speak today. But fifty years after that declaration, perhaps it’s time.

I miss him. Dad. Severt. That’s true this week, and it’s been true these past few years as we’ve lost him, further and further, to memory loss and confusion.

In planning this service, we tried to guess how many people would come. In practical terms, that means how many sandwiches we need.

But it also means thinking about family—who’s still living, how well they’re getting around, how widely they’re scattered.

It means thinking about all of the places dad has been and the people he’s known—in this church and this town, in the nearly twenty churches he’s served (almost a score! How could I speak about dad without one pun?)—all of those churches in half a dozen towns.

It means thinking about the places he lived earlier in his life and places he made friends while passing through.

It’s also meant thinking about the caregivers who have helped dad and helped us, his family, so much in these last years: at Legends, where he’s been in memory care since May 2012; at St. Croix Hospice, whose team gave him a jump-start last winter and gave us advice and solace this past week; at Country Manor, whose nurses, aides, and social workers scarcely had time to get to know dad; and here at Bethlehem, which sent pastors and volunteers to visit him.

I’d been thinking that those of you who have known Severt only in these St. Cloud years have missed out on a lot. And you have—

You missed the practical joker who rewired a seminary classmate’s radio so that it could be switched on and off only from the next room (I missed that too—I was two when he graduated).

You missed the young husband who, in a mix of necessity and the joy of making things, crafted much of the furniture for his and mom’s first homes from salvaged crates and other cheap wood (I still have some of it, including the toddler-size table, chairs, and bookcase he built me).

You missed the father who taught us what he knew but also how to look up what he didn’t know, and to look up more than one point of view. The father who told impossibly long shaggy-dog stories to entertain us, but really to keep us quiet, on long drives to visit relatives. The father who, when we were misbehaving, might introduce us as “Bea’s kids from her first marriage.”

You missed more building—the elaborate camper custom-fit to the roof and tailgate of our Pontiac station wagon; the smaller pushing structure that turned our red wagon into a racecar.

You missed exotic cuisine—the foraged mushrooms that mom would have nothing to do with; the pickled stems of purslane (a succulent weed that’s tastier than some standard vegetables); the rhubarb and backyard-grape wine of which some parishioners did not approve.

You missed thoughtful conversations about how much people miss when they read any meaningful text as strictly literal.

You missed some periods of depression.

You missed most of his art-making.

And you missed forty years of sermons—some inspirational, some entertaining, some meandering discussions of Hebrew or Greek etymology, some just plain embarrassing to the family members who appeared in them.

But you also—especially you caregivers—helped me see how much was still there.

The activities director at Legends, Blaire, recognized how important it was to Severt to make things with his hands and to help people, and she sought out ways for him to continue doing both.

Dad had made some things since coming to St. Cloud, but mostly he accumulated materials for sculptures and other projects that were never realized.

He filled a two-car garage with tools and rocks, blocks of wood and bits of plastic, prescription jars filled with golf tees or pen springs. He could pick up most anything there and tell you what he saw in it, or how it might fit with that car part in the corner to make a bird or solve a workshop problem. But he could no longer follow through and put the pieces together. They just piled up.

Cleaning out that garage, and (necessarily) discarding much of the stuff, was among the hardest things I’ve ever done. I could see what had drawn him to most of the scraps—their geometry or color or heft in the hand. His belief in the value of simple things, the dignity of materials, his abhorrence of waste, was everywhere evident.

But to every thing there is a season.

It was in speaking with caregivers this past week, and with friends who’ve offered support, some of whom never met dad, that I decided I should say something here.

I spoke with Wayne, a nursing assistant at Legends, about how we resemble our fathers, whether we want to or not, and how eventually, if we’re lucky, we find ways in which that’s a good thing.

I saw how dad, when he could barely talk, charmed the staff at Country Manor, and how, when he stopped talking, and scarcely moved, those last three days, they saw dad in us, his family.

I’ll leave it to others here to speak of eternal life. 

I know my father lives on in the people whose lives he touched—in the family he loved, the friends he loved, in the strangers he loved.

He lives in me, as he long has, as my mother does, as others I love do. He lives in me not just as a relation—someone in my family, someone on my side—but as a standard of relation, a principle I use in finding my place in relation to other things and other people.

I don’t aim to duplicate dad’s life, but I evaluate others’ prescriptions for living in relation to what he and mom taught and exemplified.

In a commencement speech last year, the novelist George Saunders said, “What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness. Those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering, and I responded . . . sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly.”

Age, he said, may erode selfishness: “We get our butts kicked by real life, and people come to our defense, and help us, and we learn that we’re not separate, and don’t want to be.”

So time may make us kinder, he said, but why wait? Start now. Go on with whatever else matters in your life, but be kind.

That fits with my sense of dad and what he valued. It fits with his short poem that we included in the memorial card. It fits with much of what he reminisced about as his memory failed.

The details weren’t always to be trusted. He recalled with gratitude all he’d learned from his brother-in-law Andy about fixing engines (I don’t doubt that)—then he mentioned that they’d invented the airplane (perhaps not).

But the important things were consistent: he believed in generosity, both material and of the spirit; he believed in inclusiveness and encouragement; he believed in kindness; he believed in love.

And if we live up to that, he’s with us.

Thank you all, so very much, for coming.

Education

Something to think about...

Trust

"...I will look up."
Psalm 5:3

I know where to put my trust.

"But as for me, O LORD, I will come into Your house
in the multitude of Your mercy....
Let all those rejoice who put their trust in You;
Let them ever shout for joy, because You defend them...." 

                                                                                     Psalm 5:7a,11a

THE MAVEN - a poem written by my dad

THE MAVEN

(a poem that doesn’t ask the question: “Do mites have ears?”)

by

Severt Score

Once upon a dead mite’s ear was found a dozen dead bacteria,

Twelve microscopic corpses on that arachnid on the floor.

As I spied that dead arachnid I wondered what kind of whack did

Dispatch that tiny creature to the land beyond death’s door.

What sent that little mite on to the land beyond death’s door.

                         Tell me that, if nothing more.

Was it some miniscule mugger or a commercial de-bugger

That made that mite expire -- something he’d never done before?

Was it victim of a swatter? Did it die from lack of water?

Did it starve for lack of food because to buy it was too poor?

Was it victim of starvation because to buy it was too poor?

                         What dispatched it through death’s door?

Was it gout or was it dropsy? Should we ask for an autopsy?

Should some wise forensic wizard probe this mystery to the core?

Could some wise police detective help us gain the right perspective

In the matter of the demise of the mite upon the floor?

Could he find an explanation of that body on the floor?

                         At least that, if nothing more.

We went up to New Haven and retained an able maven.

(“Maven” is a Yiddish word for one who knows the score

And can go without confusion straight to the right conclusion.)

He had been solving mysteries for thirty years or more.

Expert in forensic medicine thirty years or more.

                         Oh, that maven knew the score!

Well, he came down to our city to pursue the nitty gritty

Details of the mystery that made our brains so sore.

He was persistent. He was thorough. He carefully turned each furrow

As he plowed through all the evidence -- o’er the facts did pore.

He left no stone unturned -- o’er all evidence did pore.

                         Oh, that maven knew the score!

Oh, whatever did that cop see? Naught was found in the autopsy

But the dozen ear borne corpses that we told about before.

All he found in the inspection was a petered out infection --

Just a dozen dead bacteria -- only that, and nothing more.

Only twelve deceased bacteria on the ear, and nothing more.

                         Just a dozen, three times four.

Well, it seems that each bacterium had succumbed to some strong serum,

But not before the arachnid was a corpse upon the floor.

Given sooner that same serum might have conquered each bacterium

In time to save their tiny host and snatch it from death’s door.

Given sooner might have saved it from passage through death’s door.

                         Now it’s dead upon the floor.

Or perhaps some stronger sera could have conquered the bacteria.

Some powerful medications might have held some hope in store.

But saddest words of tongue or pen, as the poet said, are “It might have been.”

And what might have been did not occur, so it hit the floor.

For want of stronger sera the arachnid hit the floor,

                         Stiffer than a two by four.

Can you tell us, clever sleuth, relentless stalker of the truth,

If you find this kind of germ when a mite’s ear you explore,

Does twelve seem an average count, or what’s the usual amount?

When a mite’s ear you explore, is it less or is it more?

Quoth the maven, “Never more. Sometimes less, but never more.”

                         Quoth the maven, “Never more.”

“To find none is always nice. I’ve found a dozen once or twice.

“The usual number I have found is in the range of three or four.

“Six or seven is not so strange, but three or four’s the usual range.

“I have found twelve but never more when a mite’s ear I explore.

“No arachnid has ever more when its ear I explore.”

                         Quoth the maven, “Never more.”

The view out Grandpa's window.... I'm so thankful for my dad's poetry, as it offers a means to glimpse the world through his eyes. I hope my children will come to cherish this heritage of humor and creativity.

Looking for more poetry by Severt Score?  

Check out the Norwegian epic, Gunder.

Strength’s Casket

The ceiling hovers like an airtight lid.

The pounding in my head, nails,

I no longer resist.

I rest.

Rest is said to rejuvenate.

That’s what I’ll say I’m doing.

In this airless room,

I wait.

In the past, I had the strength

To run out the door to fields a flower,

To trudge toward the exit,

To crawl.

This state becomes the new norm.

I breathe smaller breaths,

Make fewer moves,

Eat less.

Oh, to fade from existence.

The crunching of the termite’s jaw

Muted, as from some distant land

Where destruction is merely change,

Deterioration is transformation.

I exhale.

Exhale.

I am Woman, Hear Me...

Coming off a project in which I wrote a script with three great, highly nuanced male roles and one so-so female supporting role, I read this article:

Gender inequality still has a starring role in Hollywood

Nothing new. The study didn't even address the fact that there are more female actors vying for fewer good female roles.

I am proud of the latest script I completed, but I do regret that it had worse than a 3:1 ratio of decent male roles to female roles. Reading this article, I'm reminded that as a female writer, I still can be part of the gender inequality problem.

Since I started out acting, part of my dream has always been to write scripts that will bring creative opportunities and employment to more female actors. It is always about the story first, and not the casting agenda; however, with half of the world population being female, it is utterly foolish to think that strong female characters somehow weaken a story! The male-dominated story mill is not a product of logic, but rather of habit. Given the fact that male screenwriters are less likely to go out of their way to create strong female roles*, I believe it is not only a noble dream for me to do what I can to fill the gap... it is also my responsibility.

It was such a joy to see all of those women up at the podium receiving the SAG Award for outstanding cast for The Help this year. While I must admit that it would be nice to someday receive recognition from the Academy for my writing, I think it would be equally enjoyable to be able to sit back and watch a group of talented actresses receive an award that they never would have been considered for if not for hours, weeks, months, even years I spent creating characters for them to inhabit.

This is not just another "I am woman, hear me roar" rant, but rather a "I am woman, hear me... Hey! Over here! I am woman, I exist... I am part of this world you are writing about. Please remember that at least occasionally. It could even add some authenticity and depth to your writing!"

There may have been a lot of changes in the world for women in the four decades since Helen Reddy wrote her #1Hit Song, "I am Woman," but looking at what comes out of (and what goes on in) Hollywood, I'd say we've still got a long way to go... Baby.

Emily Joy Craig (center, www.facebook.com/cast.emily) was the lead in "Grace Like Rain," my 2011 short script about a young woman struggling to be taken seriously in a production role in 1930's Hollywood. Seen here on set with fellow cast members, Gib Gerard, Jenn Gotzon, and Kristin McCoy

* Hats off to Tate Taylor, however, for writing the screenplay for The Help (based on a novel by a female writer, BTW)

ON THE OPINION OF A WRITER

So, the viewing marathon is over and my ballot has been cast.

I'm looking forward to seeing which performances my peers will select as the best of the year in the 18th Annual Screen Actors Guild Awards. I've been eligible to vote all 18 years. That's a lot of years of keeping my dues current even when I've not been acting, but I keep it up because I never officially quit acting -- I've just been on a very prolonged maternity leave.

For those who don't know my story, like so many other starry-eyed young girls, I came to Hollywood intending to act. My road to stardom, however, quickly became very bumpy. Literally. Bumpy. Within weeks of arriving, I contracted my first of five consecutive major bumps.

Concealing an ever-growing "Baby Bump" while running to call-backs for roles like one recurring character who was supposed to be a skinny model was one thing, but after the colicky child arrived making it to any audition, rehearsal, or performance became next to impossible. It had all happened too quickly. Without extended family or resources to pay for babysitters, I could not go on auditions, and without going on auditions one can not get cast, and thus, can not act. I'm not complaining. That derailment ended up bringing me back to an earlier love -- writing. That was something I could do at home and I didn't need to hire babysitters nearly as often.

Over the past 18 years, I've come to look at movies from a much more writerly perspective. While I love a great performance, it is usually the story that that I find myself analyzing and celebrating most when it is well done. (And I would argue that actors rarely win "Best Actor" awards alone, but rather in partnership with well-written scripts.) Because of this, I have to really slow myself down when faced with the question of which film to choose for the "Outstanding Performance by a Cast" award. I have to remind myself that this award is not about the story, it's about the acting. This is such a collaborative art that the dissection is not always as easy as it might seem.

Watching all of these great performances does give me the itch to get back into that form of creative expression again, but I may have to wait a bit longer to do that. I'm still overseeing the education of three of my kids, and dedicating a lot of time to writing. I want to be Superwoman and juggle it all at once, but the truth is, I'm not. For now, I'm a writer and mom (or perhaps I should say "mom and writer" -- priorities always affect perspective.) Acting and painting (and traveling the world, not to mention keeping a clean house) will have to remain on hold.

All that said, I view my SAG screeners as an actor, and I view them as a writer. And I celebrate when both sides are pleased. Although, I would say this was far from the best year I have seen for performances paired with stories that blow me away, there were several celebration-worthy nominees. The Help easily won my vote for "Outstanding Performance by a Cast" and is (not surprisingly) also a "Best Picture" Academy Award nominee.

Personally, I found The Artist delightful, and yet I heard one Hollywood outsider say, "Oh brother! Not another film about making films! How self-indulgent can these filmmakers be?" It's a worthy (and fiscally necessary) challenge to strive for objectivity and to try to see films as those who are not in the industry might see them.

Then there are all those films about characters who happen to be writers -- sometimes they work and sometimes they do seem self-indulgent. Is the writer only being lazy and writing about what he or she does in order to avoid research? I do find myself wondering what non-writers think of these movies.

Whether a person is in a "creative profession" or not, however, we all do create -- we create the lives we live and the environments we inhabit; some create fantasy worlds so elaborately detailed that they even deceive themselves; we create relationships and networks of relationships (and sometimes we destroy them); we create harmony and disharmony.... Because creativity is at the core of what all people do in the living of life, I think stories about writers and artists, if done well, can embody that creativity (which is rather abstract) in a metaphor that resonates well beyond the surface of the storyline of a certain character and his profession.

Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris was one of this year's films that did that well. The competition did not allow for me to cast my vote for it to get a SAG award, but I am glad to see that it received some Oscar nominations. It is a good story that I wouldn't mind watching again... and the writer in me absolutely loved this little exchange:

GIL: Would you read it?

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: Your novel?

GIL: Yeah, it's like 400 pages long and I'm just looking 

just for, you know, just an opinion. 

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: My opinion is I hate it. 

GIL: I mean, you haven't even read it. 

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: If it's bad I'll hate it because I hate 

bad writing. If it’s good, I'll be envious and hate it 

all the more. You don't want the opinion of another 

writer. 

(from Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, 2011)