“I didn’t cry when granny died.
She made me so depressed;
And now I find I miss her
More than I’d ever have guessed”.
When I was a kid we lived in a small city in Michigan called Trenton. There were six of us living in this tiny house that probably had around the same square footage as the two bedroom duplex I live in now. Typical suburban city that was part of the spread of suburbia in the late fifties and early sixties.
I always try to think of the earliest time in my life I can remember and I think my first memory is of sitting on my Grandfathers lap and pretending to shave him with his set of keys as the razor. He had a little can opener that seemed to do the trick. I don’t know if anyone that was around could describe the relationship between Grampa and me without giving the bond its true justice. To say we were close would be downplaying the relationship in every sense imaginable. I remember as a very small child whenever we would visit with Grampa I would be stuck to his lap like glue. I have a slight memory of calling him Papa for a short while when everyone else was calling him Grampa. I recall one time, after calling him papa while on his lap, my sister Karen looked at me and said “His name is Grampa” and that’s what I called him from that day on.
He had seven Grandchildren and I was the youngest and I belonged to him. I remember my Grandmother telling me when I was a bit older that he told her after I was born that she had this great relationship with all the other kids and that I was his. He loved me more than one should be allowed. I can safely say that I was truly the light of his life. The really strange part was that this was accepted by all. It was known by everyone that at any function where we all got together I would be with Grampa and that was that.
We, as a family, were not what one would consider wealthy. When I was very young I think you could say we were struggling to be lower middle class. Don’t get me wrong, we never went hungry, but we were never the ones on the block to be the first to get any new product or have fancy things like some other kids. Mom would always make sure we had enough to eat and clothes on our back. One thing she could always count on without even asking was that Grampa would always take care of my needs. I remember getting winter jackets and my first new bike while with him. I also had some sort of problem with my feet and needed orthopedic shoes that were always more expensive than my brothers shoes. Again, Grampa would take me to get them. I still see him bending down and feeling the fit to make sure they weren’t too tight. There was not a single day up to about the age of 11 that I did not talk to him on the phone unless they were out of town. I have distinct memories of sitting in school on certain days and just wishing he would show up to take me out to eat or shopping and the absolute joy of seeing his car pull up from my classroom window.
As I grew older I became less and less enchanted with the attention he would shower me with. Looking back on it I know that this is a normal growing process. I started to actually feel annoyed when he would call and put out when forced to go see him. I was becoming a typical teenager and didn’t have time for him. I feel sad today knowing that he never really understood that.
When I was thirteen, like most Jewish boys, I was Bar-Mitzva. During the ceremony, as I was on the stage holding the torah, he stood up while the rabbi was leading the congregation in prayer and walked onto the stage, kissed me on the forehead and walked back down to his seat. I felt so embarrassed. Looking back now I feel ashamed to have felt that way. This occasion was his dream come true and I was too young and stupid to recognize it. Those that knew him never thought anything about the incident. They knew what it meant to him. My grandmother later told me that he always said he wanted to live long enough to see this day. Again, in my youth, I couldn’t appreciate the moment. It’s true when they say that youth is wasted on the young.
Grampa died when I was fifteen. I didn’t grieve for him at the time as I was too wrapped up in my own life as a teen that only cared about himself. I miss him dearly and often long for the days of my youth when we would always know that I was his and he was mine. Looking back I see how easy it would have been to let him know how important he was to me. I know how proud he would have been of Shelly and the kids and how he would have just lost himself in Maegan. I know he thought I could do anything and would someday rule the world and I often wonder what he would think of where I’ve ended up in life. Knowing the way he felt about me he’d probably think that this was the world I was meant to rule.
At the top of this post are lyrics from a Carly Simon song called “The Carter Family”. Whenever I hear this part of the song I always change the words in my head to Grampa and get all teary eyed. I don’t know why I do this to myself but I have it on my ipod and listen to it almost daily. Yes it brings tears but it also reminds me of a day when I felt totally secure in the love of another and even if I did wrong I would get a little tap on my head and know that all was well. I also know that he’d still tap me on the head today.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Doctor My Eyes
When I was a kid I used to work at a full service gas station. If there are any of you out there who don’t know what a real full service station was, ask an old guy like me. I bring up the gas station job because I received an injury there that has had an effect on my entire life. My eyesight was damaged to a point that to this day causes me problems.
One day in September of 1978, it was the first day of my senior year of high school, gasoline kicked back from the car I was filling and splashed into my eyes. Actually, more splashed onto my shirt, but all I felt was the burning in my eyes. I remember grabbing my shirt and using it to wipe my eyes. This, in hindsight, was not the most intelligent thing I’ve ever done. I can almost still feel the emotion of realizing what I had done by wiping my eyes with the shirt. I distinctly remember that split second before the pain, and it was intense, asking myself why I had done it. It’s always the weird things in any of my life’s crisis that I seem to recall better than the actual incident.
Once the pain set in I remember yelling for help because it hurt so much. I could see but I could actually feel the heat in my eyes. There was a guy at the station working with me named Keith Miles, who was just a moose of a guy, that came out and lifted me on to his back and took me inside the station to the sink. This was not very difficult as this was after I got sick and lost 120 lbs. I was a strapping 123 lbs. He put my head under the water and kept yelling at me to open my eyes. Keith was a real intimidating guy; I did as I was told. To this day I feel I owe him my eyesight. I have no idea where he is or how to get in touch with him but if I could I would let him know how I feel about it.
Once the dousing was over I felt well enough to go on about my business. Again, this was not a day of my smartest decisions. After working for a few minutes my eyes felt like I was under a sunlamp. I called home and told my mother what had happened and that I would be all right. I told her I was well enough to drive myself home, that intelligence of mine kicking in again, but I would appreciate it if she would just have a bag of ice waiting for me to put on my eyes when I got there. I can’t imagine what she thought, obvious concern, but trusting me enough to know my capabilities.
Once I got myself home I went into the den and was watching television with my brother David. I had the bag of ice that I kept putting over my eyes and convinced myself and Mom that everything was going to be ok. Then the phone rang and I yelled out the typical, “I’ll get it”. I stood up, took about three steps, and every light in the world went out. I was standing just inside the kitchen and couldn’t move. I yelled for help and David asked what was wrong. I told him I couldn’t see and he went and got mom. They got me in the car and mom took me to the emergency room.
There’s a little contention about what happened next, but this is my story, and I’m telling it from my point of view. Mom stopped the car and told me to get out and she would go park the car. I stood outside the car thinking about how odd it must look for me to be standing in what I thought was the middle of the parking lot, with my arms outstretched trying to get a feel of where I was.
Someone asked what was wrong and I said I had gas in my eyes. I was then pulled and pushed for what seemed like a couple hundred yards to a chair. I had no idea where mom was but these people obviously meant business. All kinds of chatter and movement and I started to get the feeling that I might have a bigger problem than I thought. I was mistakenly under the impression that I would have some sort of say on what was about to happen to me. I still couldn’t see anything and someone was pushing my head back. I started to get upset because they weren’t telling me what was going on. I remember shouting, “What are you doing to me”? And being told they needed to rinse my eyes with some solution and that it would probably hurt. I said I would need a second to prepare myself for it and was told in a rather forceful voice that there was no time for that and my head and face were pushed under a stream of some liquid that made my eyes burn worse than the original pain.
After cleaning out my eyes they placed patches on them and gave my mom instructions to put drops in them every four hours. I stayed like that for a number of weeks. For the first week or so I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see again. After that first week I was able to see light from dark and I knew I’d be all right. I’ve got a great many stories about things that happened during my blindness, furniture being moved and things of that ilk, but that can wait for another posting. I will say that I did have a wonderful network of friends who I placed a great deal of trust in and they helped me an enormous amount.
There are a number of things you learn about yourself when something like this happens. I know I became a much deeper thinker and observer of all that surrounds me. I also know that the experience helped shape the person I am today, as all of life’s experiences do. I sometimes wonder how, if any, different I would be if it had never happened? I’m not sure. I know it has somehow made me more guarded around people. More in the need to feel in control of myself at all times. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. I think of the time I spent without sight often and always think of the things that event has shaped in my life. It was pretty traumatic after all and I can say there are not many of you out there that have gone through the same type of thing.
To this day, my eyes burn on a regular basis. I have a major issue trying to get drops into them to soothe the burning sensation. It’s quite a joke when an Optometrist tries to put drops in my eyes. I end up taking a Visine bath. My ex wife used to sit on my chest and have her legs on my shoulders trying to hold my face still enough to put drops in. It just got to be too much of a production so we just decided to go without. I buy these really expensive drops now that an eye Doctor said I needed and use much more of them than I should. I still end up getting more on my face than in my eyes. I still try though. It helps ease the burn a bit. I don’t really have a nice clean ending to this story, just something I wanted to talk about. Thanks for listening.
One day in September of 1978, it was the first day of my senior year of high school, gasoline kicked back from the car I was filling and splashed into my eyes. Actually, more splashed onto my shirt, but all I felt was the burning in my eyes. I remember grabbing my shirt and using it to wipe my eyes. This, in hindsight, was not the most intelligent thing I’ve ever done. I can almost still feel the emotion of realizing what I had done by wiping my eyes with the shirt. I distinctly remember that split second before the pain, and it was intense, asking myself why I had done it. It’s always the weird things in any of my life’s crisis that I seem to recall better than the actual incident.
Once the pain set in I remember yelling for help because it hurt so much. I could see but I could actually feel the heat in my eyes. There was a guy at the station working with me named Keith Miles, who was just a moose of a guy, that came out and lifted me on to his back and took me inside the station to the sink. This was not very difficult as this was after I got sick and lost 120 lbs. I was a strapping 123 lbs. He put my head under the water and kept yelling at me to open my eyes. Keith was a real intimidating guy; I did as I was told. To this day I feel I owe him my eyesight. I have no idea where he is or how to get in touch with him but if I could I would let him know how I feel about it.
Once the dousing was over I felt well enough to go on about my business. Again, this was not a day of my smartest decisions. After working for a few minutes my eyes felt like I was under a sunlamp. I called home and told my mother what had happened and that I would be all right. I told her I was well enough to drive myself home, that intelligence of mine kicking in again, but I would appreciate it if she would just have a bag of ice waiting for me to put on my eyes when I got there. I can’t imagine what she thought, obvious concern, but trusting me enough to know my capabilities.
Once I got myself home I went into the den and was watching television with my brother David. I had the bag of ice that I kept putting over my eyes and convinced myself and Mom that everything was going to be ok. Then the phone rang and I yelled out the typical, “I’ll get it”. I stood up, took about three steps, and every light in the world went out. I was standing just inside the kitchen and couldn’t move. I yelled for help and David asked what was wrong. I told him I couldn’t see and he went and got mom. They got me in the car and mom took me to the emergency room.
There’s a little contention about what happened next, but this is my story, and I’m telling it from my point of view. Mom stopped the car and told me to get out and she would go park the car. I stood outside the car thinking about how odd it must look for me to be standing in what I thought was the middle of the parking lot, with my arms outstretched trying to get a feel of where I was.
Someone asked what was wrong and I said I had gas in my eyes. I was then pulled and pushed for what seemed like a couple hundred yards to a chair. I had no idea where mom was but these people obviously meant business. All kinds of chatter and movement and I started to get the feeling that I might have a bigger problem than I thought. I was mistakenly under the impression that I would have some sort of say on what was about to happen to me. I still couldn’t see anything and someone was pushing my head back. I started to get upset because they weren’t telling me what was going on. I remember shouting, “What are you doing to me”? And being told they needed to rinse my eyes with some solution and that it would probably hurt. I said I would need a second to prepare myself for it and was told in a rather forceful voice that there was no time for that and my head and face were pushed under a stream of some liquid that made my eyes burn worse than the original pain.
After cleaning out my eyes they placed patches on them and gave my mom instructions to put drops in them every four hours. I stayed like that for a number of weeks. For the first week or so I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see again. After that first week I was able to see light from dark and I knew I’d be all right. I’ve got a great many stories about things that happened during my blindness, furniture being moved and things of that ilk, but that can wait for another posting. I will say that I did have a wonderful network of friends who I placed a great deal of trust in and they helped me an enormous amount.
There are a number of things you learn about yourself when something like this happens. I know I became a much deeper thinker and observer of all that surrounds me. I also know that the experience helped shape the person I am today, as all of life’s experiences do. I sometimes wonder how, if any, different I would be if it had never happened? I’m not sure. I know it has somehow made me more guarded around people. More in the need to feel in control of myself at all times. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. I think of the time I spent without sight often and always think of the things that event has shaped in my life. It was pretty traumatic after all and I can say there are not many of you out there that have gone through the same type of thing.
To this day, my eyes burn on a regular basis. I have a major issue trying to get drops into them to soothe the burning sensation. It’s quite a joke when an Optometrist tries to put drops in my eyes. I end up taking a Visine bath. My ex wife used to sit on my chest and have her legs on my shoulders trying to hold my face still enough to put drops in. It just got to be too much of a production so we just decided to go without. I buy these really expensive drops now that an eye Doctor said I needed and use much more of them than I should. I still end up getting more on my face than in my eyes. I still try though. It helps ease the burn a bit. I don’t really have a nice clean ending to this story, just something I wanted to talk about. Thanks for listening.
It’s A Loss For Us All
I got an email from a very dear friend of mine last night to notify me that her mother had died the previous Saturday evening. I met Mary in October of 1981 and have somehow stayed in touch with her through all the garbage I’ve gone through in the last 25 years. From the moment we met it was like we were family. We’d hang out after work with other coworkers and developed a very close friendship.
I remember the very first time I met Mary’s mother. Funny, now that I think of it, I don’t even remember her first name. I always called her Mrs. Campbell. I was invited over to Mary’s parent’s house and while there was introduced to both parents. When introduced to Mrs. Campbell I was informed that she had just had oral surgery and as she greeted me I noticed that she had no teeth. Actually, I’m not sure if she had none at all, but she was missing quite a few. She was so uninhibited about it that we all started laughing. It was the beginning of a feeling of family and friendship with an entire family that, even though I haven’t seen a number of them in over a decade, I know I’d still be as welcome as if I lived next door. Every time I would see either of Mary’s parents they would treat me as if we’d known each other forever. The warmth generated by these people should be the standard by which love for others is measured.
Once, when I was meeting either Mary or her brother Tom at their parent’s condo, as I was walking through the parking lot I saw Mr. Campbell. Again, I do not remember his first name; we always called him the Colonel. I yelled out a greeting to him and as he turned around he asked who it was. I said my name and his response was “My Kevin?” Like I was one of his children. I had to be about 26 at the time and I’ll tell you, I felt like one of his. Bottom line, these were good people and raised good kids.
I worked with Mary’s brother Tom for a number of years and we always had a good time and would go out after work. We would often go to Tijuana to bet on sports and horses. My roommate at the time was their cousin Brian and any type of family event for the Campbell’s would include an invitation to both of us. Out of the other siblings I also had a friendship with two of her sisters, Jane and Stacey. Again, though I haven’t seen some of these people in over ten years, I still think of them often and always hope to be in touch with them again.
I, thankfully, have not had to deal with the loss of a parent. I’ve had a few friends that have, along with my ex wife, and I always wonder how they deal with it. I think when things like this happen to us we all feel a little older. It’s like we’re not the kids anymore. It’s one more thing that chips away at that child inside I’ve written about before. Though I haven’t seen Mrs. Campbell in a number of years I know I feel a little older after getting the news of her passing. I also know that she would hope that we do everything we can to relight that fire that is that kid and never lose sight of the fact the she loved us all. So I say to all the Campbell children, and especially the Colonel, My thoughts are with you. I love you all and may this pain pass quickly. Trust me on this, I know I’m not the only one that has had similar experiences with your family and those that were fortunate enough to know her and all of you feel the same.
I remember the very first time I met Mary’s mother. Funny, now that I think of it, I don’t even remember her first name. I always called her Mrs. Campbell. I was invited over to Mary’s parent’s house and while there was introduced to both parents. When introduced to Mrs. Campbell I was informed that she had just had oral surgery and as she greeted me I noticed that she had no teeth. Actually, I’m not sure if she had none at all, but she was missing quite a few. She was so uninhibited about it that we all started laughing. It was the beginning of a feeling of family and friendship with an entire family that, even though I haven’t seen a number of them in over a decade, I know I’d still be as welcome as if I lived next door. Every time I would see either of Mary’s parents they would treat me as if we’d known each other forever. The warmth generated by these people should be the standard by which love for others is measured.
Once, when I was meeting either Mary or her brother Tom at their parent’s condo, as I was walking through the parking lot I saw Mr. Campbell. Again, I do not remember his first name; we always called him the Colonel. I yelled out a greeting to him and as he turned around he asked who it was. I said my name and his response was “My Kevin?” Like I was one of his children. I had to be about 26 at the time and I’ll tell you, I felt like one of his. Bottom line, these were good people and raised good kids.
I worked with Mary’s brother Tom for a number of years and we always had a good time and would go out after work. We would often go to Tijuana to bet on sports and horses. My roommate at the time was their cousin Brian and any type of family event for the Campbell’s would include an invitation to both of us. Out of the other siblings I also had a friendship with two of her sisters, Jane and Stacey. Again, though I haven’t seen some of these people in over ten years, I still think of them often and always hope to be in touch with them again.
I, thankfully, have not had to deal with the loss of a parent. I’ve had a few friends that have, along with my ex wife, and I always wonder how they deal with it. I think when things like this happen to us we all feel a little older. It’s like we’re not the kids anymore. It’s one more thing that chips away at that child inside I’ve written about before. Though I haven’t seen Mrs. Campbell in a number of years I know I feel a little older after getting the news of her passing. I also know that she would hope that we do everything we can to relight that fire that is that kid and never lose sight of the fact the she loved us all. So I say to all the Campbell children, and especially the Colonel, My thoughts are with you. I love you all and may this pain pass quickly. Trust me on this, I know I’m not the only one that has had similar experiences with your family and those that were fortunate enough to know her and all of you feel the same.
When Smokey Sings
"Debonair lullabies in melodies revealed
In deep despair on lonely nights
He knows just how you feel
The slyest rhymes - the sharpest suits
In miracles made real"
I grew up in the Detroit area in the sixties and remember very well the music of the day. I was eight years old when Dianna Ross and The Supremes appeared for the last time together on “The Ed Sullivan Show”. It was a Sunday night and my mother made me take a bath before the show started or I wouldn’t be able to watch. The whole family sat there together, sans my dad, and watched them sing “Someday, We’ll Be Together”. I vividly remember thinking that maybe they were singing about themselves and that they would be together again. I remember feeling so sad to think that they were through. Looking back on it now I can’t help but think how strange it was for an eight year old to be so concerned about the happenings of the music industry.
Growing older I would go through stages of the different types of music I would listen to. Scanning the fm dial I would stop and listen to a number of different songs one day and not want to hear it the next. I would always stop, however, when it would land on an old Motown song. After looking into a number of these songs I found that the ones I enjoyed the most were songs by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles.
Smokey was the man. He wrote like no one else of his time. From party songs, “Going To A Go Go” and “Money” to the sweetest love songs imaginable. “My Girl”, “La La Means I Love You” and “Ooh Baby Baby”. He described our feelings, not only with the pen, but with a voice that brought tears to angels. Smokey was so smooth on songs like, “The Tracks Of My Tears” and “You Really Got A Hold On Me” that when he sang “The Tears Of A Clown”, an incredibly sad song, he makes it sound like he was the happiest guy on earth. He really was amazing. I think I can safely say that without him, Motown would have never been anything like the monster it became.
The first five lines of this essay are from a song by the eighties band ABC called “When Smokey Sings”. In the song the band praises Smokey for all the feelings he’s brought to them. During the tenure of the band there would be critics who would compare Martin Frye’s voice to the young Smokey Robinson. Frye addresses the critics in the song with the lyric “Should I say yes, I match his best, then I would be a liar”. Because as he says later on in the song, “Nothing can compare, nothing can compare when Smokey sings.
In deep despair on lonely nights
He knows just how you feel
The slyest rhymes - the sharpest suits
In miracles made real"
I grew up in the Detroit area in the sixties and remember very well the music of the day. I was eight years old when Dianna Ross and The Supremes appeared for the last time together on “The Ed Sullivan Show”. It was a Sunday night and my mother made me take a bath before the show started or I wouldn’t be able to watch. The whole family sat there together, sans my dad, and watched them sing “Someday, We’ll Be Together”. I vividly remember thinking that maybe they were singing about themselves and that they would be together again. I remember feeling so sad to think that they were through. Looking back on it now I can’t help but think how strange it was for an eight year old to be so concerned about the happenings of the music industry.
Growing older I would go through stages of the different types of music I would listen to. Scanning the fm dial I would stop and listen to a number of different songs one day and not want to hear it the next. I would always stop, however, when it would land on an old Motown song. After looking into a number of these songs I found that the ones I enjoyed the most were songs by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles.
Smokey was the man. He wrote like no one else of his time. From party songs, “Going To A Go Go” and “Money” to the sweetest love songs imaginable. “My Girl”, “La La Means I Love You” and “Ooh Baby Baby”. He described our feelings, not only with the pen, but with a voice that brought tears to angels. Smokey was so smooth on songs like, “The Tracks Of My Tears” and “You Really Got A Hold On Me” that when he sang “The Tears Of A Clown”, an incredibly sad song, he makes it sound like he was the happiest guy on earth. He really was amazing. I think I can safely say that without him, Motown would have never been anything like the monster it became.
The first five lines of this essay are from a song by the eighties band ABC called “When Smokey Sings”. In the song the band praises Smokey for all the feelings he’s brought to them. During the tenure of the band there would be critics who would compare Martin Frye’s voice to the young Smokey Robinson. Frye addresses the critics in the song with the lyric “Should I say yes, I match his best, then I would be a liar”. Because as he says later on in the song, “Nothing can compare, nothing can compare when Smokey sings.
The Child Inside
I have always been accused of not taking things seriously when others feel it’s warranted. This has been an issue for others ever since I can remember. I would often get in trouble in school for making a joking comment in the middle of a class or clowning around in the back of the room. I would usually get let off the hook by teachers who knew that I meant no harm and it was just something to help me get through the day
As I was growing up I felt I was on par maturity wise with people my own age. Getting older though, that has most certainly changed. It seems that the older my age group got the bigger the gap became between them and I. I like to refer to it as the “stick in the ass syndrome”. It seems that after a great many of us lost touch with each other I continued along my toys r us ways and many others had a huge pole inserted into their ass. They became our parents. The way they speak and act has me convinced that I missed the boat on this one. So many of my old school mates actually have accents now that have nothing to do with where we grew up. They speak as if their names were Buffy and Thad.
Priorities seem to be the biggest difference between them and I. Many of them do nothing but work and attend dinners and conventions that show them how to work even harder and earn even more. Me? I work in a grocery store and spend my free time looking for things to laugh at. Don’t get me wrong, I take a great deal of life very seriously, I just look for things to soften the blows. It’s like the old saying, “If I wasn’t laughing, I’d be crying”. I am so bothered by the things I see and do in daily life that if I didn’t find things to laugh about I’d probably have to be committed.
I have been accused of being incredibly immature and I’m ok with that. It’s this child inside that lets me get through each and every day. I think that what happens, as we grow older, we lose that child. I, for one, have never been able to shake him. Truth be told, I hope I never do. It’s this child that allows me to have, what I consider, a great sense of humor. It’s this sense of humor that, in part, is what makes most of you want to still be in touch with me. It’s like I’m still a little kid sometimes and it’s always fun to get a youngsters outlook on things.
I hope you all enjoy that outlook enough to never allow that stick to completely impale your lives. I know that I am on one end of the spectrum but my hope is that you all find that mid point. If not, and you’re way over on the other side, go to the local park by yourself and get on the swing. Start swinging and just think. I used to do my best thinking on the swing. There was a time that this was all I needed to be content. Once in awhile it’s good to just be content.
As I was growing up I felt I was on par maturity wise with people my own age. Getting older though, that has most certainly changed. It seems that the older my age group got the bigger the gap became between them and I. I like to refer to it as the “stick in the ass syndrome”. It seems that after a great many of us lost touch with each other I continued along my toys r us ways and many others had a huge pole inserted into their ass. They became our parents. The way they speak and act has me convinced that I missed the boat on this one. So many of my old school mates actually have accents now that have nothing to do with where we grew up. They speak as if their names were Buffy and Thad.
Priorities seem to be the biggest difference between them and I. Many of them do nothing but work and attend dinners and conventions that show them how to work even harder and earn even more. Me? I work in a grocery store and spend my free time looking for things to laugh at. Don’t get me wrong, I take a great deal of life very seriously, I just look for things to soften the blows. It’s like the old saying, “If I wasn’t laughing, I’d be crying”. I am so bothered by the things I see and do in daily life that if I didn’t find things to laugh about I’d probably have to be committed.
I have been accused of being incredibly immature and I’m ok with that. It’s this child inside that lets me get through each and every day. I think that what happens, as we grow older, we lose that child. I, for one, have never been able to shake him. Truth be told, I hope I never do. It’s this child that allows me to have, what I consider, a great sense of humor. It’s this sense of humor that, in part, is what makes most of you want to still be in touch with me. It’s like I’m still a little kid sometimes and it’s always fun to get a youngsters outlook on things.
I hope you all enjoy that outlook enough to never allow that stick to completely impale your lives. I know that I am on one end of the spectrum but my hope is that you all find that mid point. If not, and you’re way over on the other side, go to the local park by yourself and get on the swing. Start swinging and just think. I used to do my best thinking on the swing. There was a time that this was all I needed to be content. Once in awhile it’s good to just be content.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
It's Just Not The Same
While at the “Police” concert the other night I was doing my normal looking at all the other people there. Directly behind me were a couple girls, maybe 18 or 19 years old. There was a song being played called “Can’t Stand Losing You” and at one point in the song is the verse, “I see you sent my letters back, and my LP records and they’re all scratched.” Well, that got me wondering, do these girls behind me even know what an LP is? Even if they do, do they have any idea how important they were to people in my age group?
The first album I ever bought, with my own money, was “Alice Cooper” “Billion Dollar Babies”. I was 12 years old and in sixth grade. Don’t get me wrong; I grew up in a household full of music. I remember as a kid of eight or nine and even younger having albums in the house by singers like Dionne Warwick singing Burt Bacharach and Hal David songs. We always had a number of Motown albums and singles in the house too. The “Cooper” album was the first I ever bought all on my own. It was all mine.
As I got older my taste in music became, what I like to call, more refined and my collection became much more exclusive. I, of course, bought my share of “Beatles” and other albums that others had but I would have no problem buying records that none of my friends had ever heard of. I remember buying the album “Flat As A Pancake” by “Head East when I was 14 just because of the song, “Never Been Any Reason”. I took great pride in the knowledge that I didn’t know anyone that had the record.
My record collection became very important to me. My Mother used to give David and I $5.00 every Friday and I would take mine and go to Korvette’s, a local department store, because they sold albums for $3.99. I had a job at 14 and would always spend a good portion of my check adding to my collection.
When I got my license to drive I remember going to a place called “Peaches” to peruse their massive aisles full of records from all over the world. You were pretty cool when you picked up an import of “The Beatles” and, trust me, I had my share. My friends and I would go to different record stores all the time. It was important to us.
I really got into reading the liner notes. I loved it when the lyrics were included. Little trivia for you. Did you know that the first album to ever have the lyrics included was “Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band”? You do now. I used to pay so much attention to who played what instrument and always looked to see if they were on any other albums I owned. I would read the album cover thoroughly at the store to see who the players were and I would sometimes buy a record based on who the players were even if I’d never heard the song. I became quite arrogant when it came to my musical tastes.
When I moved to California in 1980 I discovered what, for a record collector, could have been mistaken for heaven on earth. “Tower Records”. There was one right across the street from the Sports Arena and it was open till midnight. It had everything I could ever want. California was far ahead of Michigan when it came to musical tastes. I would find all kinds of new bands like “Squeeze” and “The English Beat”. Groups that I still listen to today. I really got into Phil Collins’s first two solo albums and still consider them to be among my favorite records.
With the mid eighties came the cd and everything changed. They just don’t seem as personal. Albums were mine, cd’s are more, I don’t know, not mine. Listening to music isn’t the event it used to be. You can listen to music anywhere now. Back then you had to take the time to listen to it. Like I said, it’s just not as personal.
Anyway, back to the girls at the concert. I highly doubt they’ve ever had an album. They can never have the memory of the popping sound of an LP. That sound that seemed like a campfire when the needle hit the record. The scratch in the middle of your favorite song. Yeah, it was messed up but it was your scratch. I just don’t know if you can appreciate cd’s as much as your “LP records” that are all scratched.
The first album I ever bought, with my own money, was “Alice Cooper” “Billion Dollar Babies”. I was 12 years old and in sixth grade. Don’t get me wrong; I grew up in a household full of music. I remember as a kid of eight or nine and even younger having albums in the house by singers like Dionne Warwick singing Burt Bacharach and Hal David songs. We always had a number of Motown albums and singles in the house too. The “Cooper” album was the first I ever bought all on my own. It was all mine.
As I got older my taste in music became, what I like to call, more refined and my collection became much more exclusive. I, of course, bought my share of “Beatles” and other albums that others had but I would have no problem buying records that none of my friends had ever heard of. I remember buying the album “Flat As A Pancake” by “Head East when I was 14 just because of the song, “Never Been Any Reason”. I took great pride in the knowledge that I didn’t know anyone that had the record.
My record collection became very important to me. My Mother used to give David and I $5.00 every Friday and I would take mine and go to Korvette’s, a local department store, because they sold albums for $3.99. I had a job at 14 and would always spend a good portion of my check adding to my collection.
When I got my license to drive I remember going to a place called “Peaches” to peruse their massive aisles full of records from all over the world. You were pretty cool when you picked up an import of “The Beatles” and, trust me, I had my share. My friends and I would go to different record stores all the time. It was important to us.
I really got into reading the liner notes. I loved it when the lyrics were included. Little trivia for you. Did you know that the first album to ever have the lyrics included was “Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band”? You do now. I used to pay so much attention to who played what instrument and always looked to see if they were on any other albums I owned. I would read the album cover thoroughly at the store to see who the players were and I would sometimes buy a record based on who the players were even if I’d never heard the song. I became quite arrogant when it came to my musical tastes.
When I moved to California in 1980 I discovered what, for a record collector, could have been mistaken for heaven on earth. “Tower Records”. There was one right across the street from the Sports Arena and it was open till midnight. It had everything I could ever want. California was far ahead of Michigan when it came to musical tastes. I would find all kinds of new bands like “Squeeze” and “The English Beat”. Groups that I still listen to today. I really got into Phil Collins’s first two solo albums and still consider them to be among my favorite records.
With the mid eighties came the cd and everything changed. They just don’t seem as personal. Albums were mine, cd’s are more, I don’t know, not mine. Listening to music isn’t the event it used to be. You can listen to music anywhere now. Back then you had to take the time to listen to it. Like I said, it’s just not as personal.
Anyway, back to the girls at the concert. I highly doubt they’ve ever had an album. They can never have the memory of the popping sound of an LP. That sound that seemed like a campfire when the needle hit the record. The scratch in the middle of your favorite song. Yeah, it was messed up but it was your scratch. I just don’t know if you can appreciate cd’s as much as your “LP records” that are all scratched.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Just Taking A Stroll
I was thinking, how come people, in general, like to think about their past? I’m down in the Detroit area waiting for my buddy to get back to his house cuz we’re going to the Tiger game. While waiting for him I decided to drive around and visit the old “haunts” if you will.
I went to breakfast at your basic coffee shop that we used to go to quite a bit in my stoner days. I don’t even know the name of it now but back then it was called “The Clock”. It was a 24-hour joint about a ½ step down from a “Denny’s”. Decent breakfast. I remember one of the reasons we would go there was because I could smoke, and, I think we can all remember how cool it was to be able to smoke in public places and not have to worry about your parents finding out.
I then took the drive into Oak Park, where I lived from the age of 11 until I moved to San Diego. I drove down 10-mile road and saw this old radio tower off one of the side streets. I had to make the turn onto the street and parked just outside the gate that wasn’t there when I was a kid. Boy that tower struck a chord.
I remember climbing that tower so many times and seeing how high we could get. I was always the lowest but back then I didn’t even care. I don’t think any of us ever got caught. This had to be while I was in sixth or seventh grade and before I started smoking pot so drugs could in no way be blamed for our craziness.
I started the car again and drove a few blocks past a house where a girl used to live that would always have people over and we would all just hang out in their basement. I’m not sure if you could say we partied down there because their was never any drugs or alcohol involved but we really had fun down there. A few years ago I heard she died. I’ve tried looking her name up on the web but never seem to get a hit on her name. I feel sort of bad about that because she tried to get in contact with me a few times out in California and I ignored the calls. I think we all have those types of regrets. I think the goal is to not let the regret pile get too big. Something, I know, I will always work on.
I then went by Pepper Elementary School. I spent the last two weeks of fifth and all of sixth grade there. I think those were my glory days in school. There were three of us in sixth grade that were the big guns of the place. The best athletes and the most popular with consistent girlfriends throughout the year. Well, as much as you could have a girlfriend while in sixth grade. You know, big fish in the proverbial small pond.
When I got into junior high the pond was just way too big. I started getting real fat and was pretty much embarrassed about myself from that point until I got sick and lost all that weight during my senior year of high school. I think back on those days and the people that tried to reach inside my head and I remember ignoring their attempts at reaching out to me. I stuck to my own little circle of friends and never quite grew out of that. Anyway, back to the tour.
I then drove towards my junior high and on the way I went by my old house. It looks great. The neighborhood looks so much better than I remember. I drove around the area and went by the houses that my friends in the neighborhood lived in. it brought back a number of fond and not so fond memories. I ended up getting by the school and saw that it is no longer a school but more like the district headquarters. It looked fine, and the local stores around it were mostly different than I remember. What used to be a predominantly Jewish area is now mostly Arab and Black. The stores have different names except for the Coney Island place that was a regular feature of my youth. Next door to the restaurant is the place where the gas station was that I burned my eyes out at. It’s now a Tim Horton’s donut shop. I probably would have had a hard time frying the pupils there but knowing me, anything’s possible.
I then went over by the high school. On the way there I drove by what once was the bowling alley. Good thing it’s now a strip mall because I probably would have tried to roll a few lines and gotten injured again. My finger is still sore from my latest athletic pursuit up here. The high school looks just as it used to be. I then drove by another old friends old house and, since I’m still in touch with her, I gave her a call. I got her voice mail and left a message telling her that I was by her old house and mentioned that I was just taking a trip down memory lane before I went to the ball game. She called and left me a message while I was at the game and said she was in the old neighborhood just yesterday. Pretty cool.
I could do this kind of thing every day. Seeing the old haunts did me some good. It made me think of so many people and places that I haven’t thought about in years. It’s kind of cool because I recently got a message through classmates.com saying that my 30’Th high school reunion was just starting to get into the planning stages. 30 years, wow. I feel like I just left the area.
I ended the tour and went to the game. The Tigers lost. Didn’t matter, god I love baseball. I think I’ll come down again in a couple weeks and drive down to Trenton. I lived there from birth up until we moved to Oak Park. I’m sure there will be a number of things going through my head doing that too and I’m sure I’ll tell you all about that too.
I went to breakfast at your basic coffee shop that we used to go to quite a bit in my stoner days. I don’t even know the name of it now but back then it was called “The Clock”. It was a 24-hour joint about a ½ step down from a “Denny’s”. Decent breakfast. I remember one of the reasons we would go there was because I could smoke, and, I think we can all remember how cool it was to be able to smoke in public places and not have to worry about your parents finding out.
I then took the drive into Oak Park, where I lived from the age of 11 until I moved to San Diego. I drove down 10-mile road and saw this old radio tower off one of the side streets. I had to make the turn onto the street and parked just outside the gate that wasn’t there when I was a kid. Boy that tower struck a chord.
I remember climbing that tower so many times and seeing how high we could get. I was always the lowest but back then I didn’t even care. I don’t think any of us ever got caught. This had to be while I was in sixth or seventh grade and before I started smoking pot so drugs could in no way be blamed for our craziness.
I started the car again and drove a few blocks past a house where a girl used to live that would always have people over and we would all just hang out in their basement. I’m not sure if you could say we partied down there because their was never any drugs or alcohol involved but we really had fun down there. A few years ago I heard she died. I’ve tried looking her name up on the web but never seem to get a hit on her name. I feel sort of bad about that because she tried to get in contact with me a few times out in California and I ignored the calls. I think we all have those types of regrets. I think the goal is to not let the regret pile get too big. Something, I know, I will always work on.
I then went by Pepper Elementary School. I spent the last two weeks of fifth and all of sixth grade there. I think those were my glory days in school. There were three of us in sixth grade that were the big guns of the place. The best athletes and the most popular with consistent girlfriends throughout the year. Well, as much as you could have a girlfriend while in sixth grade. You know, big fish in the proverbial small pond.
When I got into junior high the pond was just way too big. I started getting real fat and was pretty much embarrassed about myself from that point until I got sick and lost all that weight during my senior year of high school. I think back on those days and the people that tried to reach inside my head and I remember ignoring their attempts at reaching out to me. I stuck to my own little circle of friends and never quite grew out of that. Anyway, back to the tour.
I then drove towards my junior high and on the way I went by my old house. It looks great. The neighborhood looks so much better than I remember. I drove around the area and went by the houses that my friends in the neighborhood lived in. it brought back a number of fond and not so fond memories. I ended up getting by the school and saw that it is no longer a school but more like the district headquarters. It looked fine, and the local stores around it were mostly different than I remember. What used to be a predominantly Jewish area is now mostly Arab and Black. The stores have different names except for the Coney Island place that was a regular feature of my youth. Next door to the restaurant is the place where the gas station was that I burned my eyes out at. It’s now a Tim Horton’s donut shop. I probably would have had a hard time frying the pupils there but knowing me, anything’s possible.
I then went over by the high school. On the way there I drove by what once was the bowling alley. Good thing it’s now a strip mall because I probably would have tried to roll a few lines and gotten injured again. My finger is still sore from my latest athletic pursuit up here. The high school looks just as it used to be. I then drove by another old friends old house and, since I’m still in touch with her, I gave her a call. I got her voice mail and left a message telling her that I was by her old house and mentioned that I was just taking a trip down memory lane before I went to the ball game. She called and left me a message while I was at the game and said she was in the old neighborhood just yesterday. Pretty cool.
I could do this kind of thing every day. Seeing the old haunts did me some good. It made me think of so many people and places that I haven’t thought about in years. It’s kind of cool because I recently got a message through classmates.com saying that my 30’Th high school reunion was just starting to get into the planning stages. 30 years, wow. I feel like I just left the area.
I ended the tour and went to the game. The Tigers lost. Didn’t matter, god I love baseball. I think I’ll come down again in a couple weeks and drive down to Trenton. I lived there from birth up until we moved to Oak Park. I’m sure there will be a number of things going through my head doing that too and I’m sure I’ll tell you all about that too.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
One More Day
Karen called me the other day to tell me that Mitch Albom was on Oprah, and knowing I liked reading his stuff, thought I would like to see the show. I switched the channel and caught him. He was on because his book “One More Day” was turned into a television movie and they had a show about the concept. Of course it got me thinking.
I think if I could have one more day with someone that is no longer living it would have to be my Grandfather. I’ve written of him before in the essay entitled, “The Carter Family”, and if you’ve read it you know how close the two of us were.
I think I would want to see him before he had his stroke, he was obviously much more vibrant at that time. I’d like to wake up at his house and let him make coffee and toast like he used to and after putting the unsalted whipped butter on the toast, he’d take the salt shaker and salt it anyway. Of course the coffee, for me, would be one part coffee and about 15 parts milk. We’d then put two saccharine tablets in it and breakfast would be served.
We’d then get into, at that time, his yellow Impala and drive the few miles to “the building”. It was pretty much a city block he owned that had stores on the ground floor and apartments on the top. We’d go to the basement to, as he would say, “check the pipes” and he’d have something to feed all the alley cats that hung around. We’d then go upstairs to one of the apartments to visit Mrs. Evans, an older woman who rented from him, and we’d sit and talk for a while.
When we were done there he’d take me down to “Vince’s”. It was a barbershop down the block from the building. I’d get in the chair and get a “regular boys haircut” while Vince and Grampa would talk about nothing in particular. He’d always let me get a soda out of the machine Vince had and I always liked that.
Grampa and I would then head down to Carters Hamburgers to get, as he would say, “a hamburger sandwich and fried potatoes. I’d get mine plain with ketchup and his always had a big slice of white onion on his. We’d eat and talk about nothing and we were both in hog heaven.
After lunch we would usually go shopping, maybe new shoes or a winter coat and I’d just take all this for granted because it was all I’d know. You never realize what you had until it’s gone. Well, my youth and Grampa are both gone now but if I could have just one more day I’d do just as I stated above.
The only difference would be that I would be the age I am now. The scenario above was a typical day for he and I before I had started going to school. I would want Grampa to see who and what I’ve become and I think I would understand him a lot better too. I’d want to tell him how much he meant to me as a child and still means to me to this very day. Of course I would tell him I love him and miss him.
It’s quite a concept, this one more day thing. I think everyone can come up with an answer to the question of whom you’d want to see again. It’s kind of bittersweet isn’t it?
I think if I could have one more day with someone that is no longer living it would have to be my Grandfather. I’ve written of him before in the essay entitled, “The Carter Family”, and if you’ve read it you know how close the two of us were.
I think I would want to see him before he had his stroke, he was obviously much more vibrant at that time. I’d like to wake up at his house and let him make coffee and toast like he used to and after putting the unsalted whipped butter on the toast, he’d take the salt shaker and salt it anyway. Of course the coffee, for me, would be one part coffee and about 15 parts milk. We’d then put two saccharine tablets in it and breakfast would be served.
We’d then get into, at that time, his yellow Impala and drive the few miles to “the building”. It was pretty much a city block he owned that had stores on the ground floor and apartments on the top. We’d go to the basement to, as he would say, “check the pipes” and he’d have something to feed all the alley cats that hung around. We’d then go upstairs to one of the apartments to visit Mrs. Evans, an older woman who rented from him, and we’d sit and talk for a while.
When we were done there he’d take me down to “Vince’s”. It was a barbershop down the block from the building. I’d get in the chair and get a “regular boys haircut” while Vince and Grampa would talk about nothing in particular. He’d always let me get a soda out of the machine Vince had and I always liked that.
Grampa and I would then head down to Carters Hamburgers to get, as he would say, “a hamburger sandwich and fried potatoes. I’d get mine plain with ketchup and his always had a big slice of white onion on his. We’d eat and talk about nothing and we were both in hog heaven.
After lunch we would usually go shopping, maybe new shoes or a winter coat and I’d just take all this for granted because it was all I’d know. You never realize what you had until it’s gone. Well, my youth and Grampa are both gone now but if I could have just one more day I’d do just as I stated above.
The only difference would be that I would be the age I am now. The scenario above was a typical day for he and I before I had started going to school. I would want Grampa to see who and what I’ve become and I think I would understand him a lot better too. I’d want to tell him how much he meant to me as a child and still means to me to this very day. Of course I would tell him I love him and miss him.
It’s quite a concept, this one more day thing. I think everyone can come up with an answer to the question of whom you’d want to see again. It’s kind of bittersweet isn’t it?
Friday, December 7, 2007
It's That Time Again
So here we are again. It’s Holiday season. I wrote last year about how I dislike this time of year for numerous reasons and I still feel that I would not miss it a bit if these special days were somehow cancelled or I was placed into a coma for the entire month of December.
I know that this time of year also means a whole lot to most people and I can appreciate that. I actually have a great deal of empathy for those whose holidays are somehow not what they would want. I think we all feel that way about the obvious cases, the poor, the hungry, the ill and those who may have lost someone close to them. My ex-wife lost her brother to cancer in early December a number of years ago and I can assure you that Christmas time is a much more bittersweet time for her and her family than they ever thought it would be all those years ago.
I think it’s real important that now, more than ever, we think of those who can’t be here during this time even though they would like to be. I’m speaking of the soldiers stationed around the world. Whether you agree with the war effort or not you have to feel for these people’s families.
Yes, I know, this is an all volunteer military. That fact, however, doesn’t take away from the idea that there are many children involved who may have a real hard time believing in Santa Claus when Mommy or Daddy can’t be home on Christmas morning because they’re overseas participating in the war effort. Yes, I know I’ve stated it before, but isn’t this whole thing really all about the kids?
My suggestion. If by chance you know anyone who has a family member in the military, check and see if there may be something you can do to help make this a special time for the children. If you don’t know of any military families, check the local fire station and see if they are collecting toys for kids. I mentioned in a previous post about a family my store adopted for the Holidays a few years ago. Check with your church or other local charities and see if you might be interested in that.
When I was younger my Mother belonged to a Jewish woman’s group that gathered toys for local Jewish families and at one time I was asked to deliver them. She gave me the addresses that each bag would go to and off I went. One of the addresses she gave me was obviously wrong as I found myself in an area of Detroit that, I was pretty sure, wasn’t part of the charity drive. As I went up to the house to see if by chance I was wrong I decided the only way was to knock on the door and ask.
The man who answered the door was about 30 years old, African American, and had a cross around his neck. He had three little ones with him who couldn’t have been older than five and, by the look on his face; they were really getting on his nerves. Being the overly intelligent guy that I am, I quickly deduced that this man was not on the list of poor Jewish families. I asked him if he had ever heard of B’nai Brith, the group my mother belonged to, and he said he’d never heard of them.
So there I was, standing on some stranger’s porch in the inner city of Detroit with a bag full of toys and some stranger staring at me like I was some kind of idiot. I looked down at one of the kids, a little girl, holding on to her father’s leg staring at me.
Obviously there was only one thing I could do. I looked at the man and asked if he could use some extra presents to put under the tree. He replied with something like “who wouldn’t”. I then explained what my actual mission was for the day and that I couldn’t see how this could, in any way, not be thought of as part of said mission. I handed him the bag, shook his hand and bid him a Merry Christmas.
I got back in my car, lit up a joint, sorry mom, and started the drive home. The whole way home all I could think of was how cool what I had just done was. I knew in my heart that I had just done something that would help those kids have a good Holiday and the idea that I gave the toys to the wrong family didn’t bother me a bit. I gave it to a family that could use it, and to me, it was the right family. Not to pat myself on the back or anything but, not bad for a 17-year-old stoner.
I’m no longer 17 and far from being considered a stoner but I went to one of the local toy stores last Tuesday and bought a couple toys. I took them to one of the local churches by the house and asked if they might find use for them. Even us grinch type folks can get a bit of the season into our cold hearts. Enjoy your Holidays everybody, be nice to each other.
I know that this time of year also means a whole lot to most people and I can appreciate that. I actually have a great deal of empathy for those whose holidays are somehow not what they would want. I think we all feel that way about the obvious cases, the poor, the hungry, the ill and those who may have lost someone close to them. My ex-wife lost her brother to cancer in early December a number of years ago and I can assure you that Christmas time is a much more bittersweet time for her and her family than they ever thought it would be all those years ago.
I think it’s real important that now, more than ever, we think of those who can’t be here during this time even though they would like to be. I’m speaking of the soldiers stationed around the world. Whether you agree with the war effort or not you have to feel for these people’s families.
Yes, I know, this is an all volunteer military. That fact, however, doesn’t take away from the idea that there are many children involved who may have a real hard time believing in Santa Claus when Mommy or Daddy can’t be home on Christmas morning because they’re overseas participating in the war effort. Yes, I know I’ve stated it before, but isn’t this whole thing really all about the kids?
My suggestion. If by chance you know anyone who has a family member in the military, check and see if there may be something you can do to help make this a special time for the children. If you don’t know of any military families, check the local fire station and see if they are collecting toys for kids. I mentioned in a previous post about a family my store adopted for the Holidays a few years ago. Check with your church or other local charities and see if you might be interested in that.
When I was younger my Mother belonged to a Jewish woman’s group that gathered toys for local Jewish families and at one time I was asked to deliver them. She gave me the addresses that each bag would go to and off I went. One of the addresses she gave me was obviously wrong as I found myself in an area of Detroit that, I was pretty sure, wasn’t part of the charity drive. As I went up to the house to see if by chance I was wrong I decided the only way was to knock on the door and ask.
The man who answered the door was about 30 years old, African American, and had a cross around his neck. He had three little ones with him who couldn’t have been older than five and, by the look on his face; they were really getting on his nerves. Being the overly intelligent guy that I am, I quickly deduced that this man was not on the list of poor Jewish families. I asked him if he had ever heard of B’nai Brith, the group my mother belonged to, and he said he’d never heard of them.
So there I was, standing on some stranger’s porch in the inner city of Detroit with a bag full of toys and some stranger staring at me like I was some kind of idiot. I looked down at one of the kids, a little girl, holding on to her father’s leg staring at me.
Obviously there was only one thing I could do. I looked at the man and asked if he could use some extra presents to put under the tree. He replied with something like “who wouldn’t”. I then explained what my actual mission was for the day and that I couldn’t see how this could, in any way, not be thought of as part of said mission. I handed him the bag, shook his hand and bid him a Merry Christmas.
I got back in my car, lit up a joint, sorry mom, and started the drive home. The whole way home all I could think of was how cool what I had just done was. I knew in my heart that I had just done something that would help those kids have a good Holiday and the idea that I gave the toys to the wrong family didn’t bother me a bit. I gave it to a family that could use it, and to me, it was the right family. Not to pat myself on the back or anything but, not bad for a 17-year-old stoner.
I’m no longer 17 and far from being considered a stoner but I went to one of the local toy stores last Tuesday and bought a couple toys. I took them to one of the local churches by the house and asked if they might find use for them. Even us grinch type folks can get a bit of the season into our cold hearts. Enjoy your Holidays everybody, be nice to each other.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
A Death In The Family
My uncle died the other day. I wasn’t very close with him, really didn’t know him at all. He was my Father’s brother in law, his sister’s husband. It wasn’t unexpected as he had been ill for quite a while.
The funeral is today. It’s very strange to wait so long because in the Jewish faith the funeral is always held the day after death, unless it’s the Sabbath, then it’s held the following day. The stated reason for the delay is to let the out of town family time to get there. It turns out that my Mother and I are the ones traveling the furthest and we’re only an hour and a half away.
I think what they’ve done here is try to make it more of a convenience for everyone instead of the opposite. I guess I can understand that but this is a family that, at one time, had at least one of their kids Bar Mitzvah at an orthodox synagogue. Seems strange to me.
Along with that is the idea that they have asked me to be a pallbearer. Of course I said yes but this too is very strange. See, in the Jewish faith there are a number of tribes. I don’t understand the whole thing but the tribe my male bloodline belongs to is called Cohanim (sp). Again, excuse my lack of thorough knowledge on the subject, but the Cohan’s are like major big guys in the faith. We are supposedly direct descendants of Aaron, the brother of Moses. I have no idea how they figured that out but some of the things that go along with this is the idea that we are never allowed to be in the same room as the dead, that we are not allowed to be pall bearers and are not allowed to set foot into a cemetery. I guess it’s the walking among the dead thing. I don’t get it but it’s something you learn as a kid. I’ve been in cemeteries before but always felt a bit weird about it.
Like I said earlier, I really didn’t know him that well. When we were young we would see their family on a regular basis, they lived in Detroit and we were in the suburbs. One year David and I spent the summer with them when Mom had surgery. Even during those times I can honestly say I probably never said more than three or four words to the guy the whole summer. There were no bad feelings or any kind of fear of him or anything like that; we just never got to know each other. I knew my aunt and their three kids real well but not him.
I feel sad for my aunt; they had to have been married for well over 50 years. And my cousins, of course, have lost their father and that can never be easy.
My Dad won’t be there, he thought it more important to fly to the Virgin Islands with his girlfriend I don’t know much about what’s left of that side of the family but I’m sure they’ll be there in good numbers. I just find it strange that they would want me to be a pallbearer.
That side of the family has always felt that we were much closer with them than we are and I think that’s what’s dictating what’s happening here. I feel no need to let them know how close our side feels we are to them. It’s not that important. I’ll be there to provide whatever it is they think I can and nod at the appropriate times when we discuss how close the family is and how much we all miss each other.
So I’ll spend today with my Mother and take a few hours out of my normal football Sunday to be with people, that without today’s event, I would probably never see again. It’s one of the things you do when you are part of a family and I think, more importantly, it’s the right thing to do.
The funeral is today. It’s very strange to wait so long because in the Jewish faith the funeral is always held the day after death, unless it’s the Sabbath, then it’s held the following day. The stated reason for the delay is to let the out of town family time to get there. It turns out that my Mother and I are the ones traveling the furthest and we’re only an hour and a half away.
I think what they’ve done here is try to make it more of a convenience for everyone instead of the opposite. I guess I can understand that but this is a family that, at one time, had at least one of their kids Bar Mitzvah at an orthodox synagogue. Seems strange to me.
Along with that is the idea that they have asked me to be a pallbearer. Of course I said yes but this too is very strange. See, in the Jewish faith there are a number of tribes. I don’t understand the whole thing but the tribe my male bloodline belongs to is called Cohanim (sp). Again, excuse my lack of thorough knowledge on the subject, but the Cohan’s are like major big guys in the faith. We are supposedly direct descendants of Aaron, the brother of Moses. I have no idea how they figured that out but some of the things that go along with this is the idea that we are never allowed to be in the same room as the dead, that we are not allowed to be pall bearers and are not allowed to set foot into a cemetery. I guess it’s the walking among the dead thing. I don’t get it but it’s something you learn as a kid. I’ve been in cemeteries before but always felt a bit weird about it.
Like I said earlier, I really didn’t know him that well. When we were young we would see their family on a regular basis, they lived in Detroit and we were in the suburbs. One year David and I spent the summer with them when Mom had surgery. Even during those times I can honestly say I probably never said more than three or four words to the guy the whole summer. There were no bad feelings or any kind of fear of him or anything like that; we just never got to know each other. I knew my aunt and their three kids real well but not him.
I feel sad for my aunt; they had to have been married for well over 50 years. And my cousins, of course, have lost their father and that can never be easy.
My Dad won’t be there, he thought it more important to fly to the Virgin Islands with his girlfriend I don’t know much about what’s left of that side of the family but I’m sure they’ll be there in good numbers. I just find it strange that they would want me to be a pallbearer.
That side of the family has always felt that we were much closer with them than we are and I think that’s what’s dictating what’s happening here. I feel no need to let them know how close our side feels we are to them. It’s not that important. I’ll be there to provide whatever it is they think I can and nod at the appropriate times when we discuss how close the family is and how much we all miss each other.
So I’ll spend today with my Mother and take a few hours out of my normal football Sunday to be with people, that without today’s event, I would probably never see again. It’s one of the things you do when you are part of a family and I think, more importantly, it’s the right thing to do.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Daddy's Little Girl
I went to my oldest daughters wedding this past weekend. I thought I was doing pretty well, holding it together and all. It was a very emotional couple of days for me and I can only tell you that before coming out I would have given the world to have not gotten on the plane. I’m not sure anyone can understand this but I am just not comfortable seeing Shelly and I think we both feel that this was probably the last time we’ll try to do anything as a “family”.
Apart from that I probably had one of my proudest moments as a father. As you can see by the picture, Amanda looked great. She was so happy and really enjoyed herself. Before I came out I knew that I’d be walking her down the “aisle” as it were but it didn’t really hit me until the time came. She looked so beautiful as she came down the stairs to me and before she got all the way down we were joking about how she wasn’t going to cry and that she wasn’t that kind of bride. When she got to the bottom I told her how wonderful she looked and we hugged. At this point we both started tearing up and I promise you, I can’t think of any other place in the world I’d have rather been than holding my daughter on her wedding day.
Amanda and Blake both knew their biological father and neither has seen him in over 15 years. They both grew up with me as their father figure for better or worst and I’m not putting myself down here but I’ve often felt I could have done a much better job. That being said, neither of them had any choice in the matter.
Adam, Amanda’s new husband, also grew up in a broken home but both his biological and stepfather play an important role in his life. Before going on, I need to say, Adam is a great guy and Amanda couldn’t have done better. They have lived together for a couple years and have bought themselves a condo and done an awful lot of work making it their own. If any of you out there that don’t know them ever have the good fortune to, you’d be very proud.
The thing that really hit me at the wedding was the introductions. Being introduced around to Adam’s family I was presented as Amanda’s father. I didn’t think anything of it until introduced to Tony, Adam’s stepfather. He was introduced as his stepfather. It occurred to me that I have never in Amanda’s life been introduced that way.
Well after that hit me the chick in me came out and my eyes were leaking like a cheap faucet. I was so glad I had my sunglasses on. I don’t know if anyone else noticed. Adam’s mother approached me and told me at that time how things were going to go and where I was to meet Amanda to walk her. She said that Amanda was upstairs saying how she needed to make sure her “Dad” was at the bottom of the stairs to meet her.
Later in the evening when many had gone home we were standing around talking and I wanted to tell Amanda how much the introduction thing I mentioned before meant to me. She then said and did something that I will take to my grave as one of the most loving things anyone has ever said to me. She said that there’s that old thing about how girls always look for someone just like their father to marry and then she pointed at Adam and then me and just nodded her head. Needless to say I lost it again and so did she as we hugged.
At the end of the night as we were saying goodbye we told each other how much this evening meant to each other. As we hugged I told her that no matter how far away I happened to be in miles I would always be “right here” and to not ever forget it. Well Amanda, I’m at the airport right now and heading back to Michigan but take heed of those words. I’m the easiest guy in the world to find. After all, daddy’s right here.
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