I didn't notice the single shadowy graveplot at first. Mostly because I was thoroughly enjoying a late afternoon jog down a gravelled country road after a five hour car ride up from Sault Ste Marie. This was the second of what would be four, excellent adventure runs amidst our seven day - seventeen hundred mile exploration around the outer perimeter of stunning lake Superior.
Plodding around a corner of the road I spied dozens of faded white wooden crosses planted in the ground of an ancient hillside cemetary on my right. Slowing to a walk, I made my way in respectful silence through the crosses and simple stone markers bearing loving testimony to the lives of those who were buried beneath my shoes. Who were these people? What would life have been like fifty, seventy-five or even a hundred years ago in this remote area of Ontario?
After offering a silent prayer that fate had been kind to my deceased companions, I stepped back onto the gravel and continued my journey. It was then that I noticed the small single stone cross sitting alone and forlorn along the roadside to my left, almost as if the grave's resident needed her own special place to dwell on a life that turned out to have ended much too soon. The cross bore a faded metal plaque that said simply; "Inar Perrera, Died - Sept,15 1943. Age - 39". It was at this point that the beginnings of a song entered my head. I finished it last week.
INAR PERRERA
The small stone cross casts it's tiny shadow
Upon the gravesite it rises above,
While in the distance a waterfall rumbles
To the lake down far below...
And as I run on I wonder,
How did you get here beside this road?
All the white wooden crosses that beckon to you
From the green grass on the mountainside,
Who were you? How did you die?
Would I have loved you when you were alive?
Inar Perrara is buried here
And I can't get her out of my mind-
Was she a blonde haired beauty with deep blue eyes,
Who was gone too soon...at thirty nine?
The afternoon sun shines in my eyes
As I make my way back to my room,
Past darkened forests that call out her name-
Making me feel not alone.
For her name comes echoing through the past,
Across the Canadian countryside...
Who were you? How did you die?
Would I have loved you when you were alive?
Inar Perrera is buried here
And I can't get her out of my mind-
Was she a blonde haired beauty with deep blue eyes
Who was gone too soon...at thirty nine?
Inar Perrera, I call your name,
Inar Perrera has gone away-
Inar Perrara will never know...
Gone too soon, at thirty nine.
With a name like "Inar" I just assumed that my graveyard companion had been a woman in her lifetime and let my imagination wander where it wanted. If any of you finds evidence to the contrary about Inar's gender, please...keep it to yourself. Let an old man have his harmless fantasies because after all, some future cemetary visitor may type something creative about our lives. Perhaps we will look down from heaven on them...and smile.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
FROM FATHER TO SON
The young boy watched closely.
What a thing of beauty it was to see his father cradling the black, sixteen pound bowling ball, gracefully stepping forward-one, two, three, four, and ending with a final smooth left foot slide. Dad released the ball and the pins at the end of the long wooden alley exploded.
"Thats the way you do it Billy! Snap your right hand up like you're holding a suitcase or shaking someone's hand" he instructed, "And don't forget to hit that second arrow!"
Dad always made sports look so easy. Had it really been almost fifty years since that first bowling lesson?
I gently place the dog-eared scrapbook on my lap and open it ever so carefully. One must be cautious when examining precious memories, especially the ones my grandmother collected for her son. They fall apart easily.
It isn't long before the headlines capture my attention:
"JONES AND PLOPAN LEAD IN VICTORY!"
"RED RAIDERS SWAMP FOE BY 19-0 SCORE!"
"ROGER JONES IS ONLY ECORSE BOY TO WIN TWO SETS!"
It amazes me still that those faded newspaper cutouts refer to a)Basketball b)Football c)Tennis and somewhere in that scrapbook there are at least a few articles about Dad's boxing exploits. He was just plain good at everything he tried as far as sports (golfing, baseball and "fishing" included). Maintaining a steady job is a subject for another time but eventually he excelled at that too.
My friend Tony and I stand in the backcourt opposite my father who is in the process of rising up towards the sky and deftly smashing a tennis ball across a vinyl trimmed net. For a change, the ball does not appear to be moving anywhere near as fast as it usually does. I eagerly charge forward to smash it back.
Incredibly, the slow moving serve arcs softly over the net, spins upward perhaps a foot and then dribbles back to the cement. My racket whooshes forward just above the apex of the balls bounce. My Dad is chuckling.
"Dad!!! No Fair!!!" I whine in my rage filled thirteen year-old voice, "You said you wouldn't put spin on it!!!"
Not too much later, Dad hits a slicing drop shot which causes Tony to severely twist his ankle trying to return it. The match is over for this particular day and in the end we were all laughing about Dad's trickery. Besides, we knew that some of what he had taught us (the hard way) would come in handy in matches against our buddies eventually.
Not all of the scrapbooks contents deal with stellar athletic endeavors; there is a faded musical program noting a piece my father is playing (or singing); an article referring to his induction into the Marine Corp and more than a few souvenir dance booklets. Dancing was a skill that helped him win the heart and feet of my mother. He was awesome at "hoofing" it too...just ask my wife, who had several opportunities to swing dance with him before his untimely passing.
Early last month, my cousin Phil (the family historian) had asked if any family members wished to add anything about Dad, who left this world in September of 1976. We were now celebrating the occasion of his birth in June of 1923.
In addition to what I've already written, I wish to say this Phil: Out of all the "Uncles", my Dad was certainly the most well-rounded (if not the best) athlete of the entire bunch. I only wish that he lived a lot longer and taken better care of himself. There were so many stories I've missed about legendary family golf, horseshoe and other competitions I would love to have heard and Dad? Well, he never was one to brag about his own exploits. Thank god his mom kept track of some of them.
The sturdy young man with long brown hair squats and positions himself in the stance of a baseball catcher. The pitcher is his nearly fifty year old father who begins a slow windmill-like windup as he prepares to deliver the ball. This is how they played it in the Marines...fast pitch, underhand.
In the span of perhaps a second, the softball whizzes like an out of control mini-Sputnik, wobbling and dipping toward the catchers unprotected face. Instinctively, he raises his mitt.
Having saved himself a broken nose or worse, the young man removes his glove and massages his swollen, reddening fingers.
"I think thats all I want to play for today, Dad", he says. "I guess fast-pitch isn't for sissies."
That may have been the last opportunity I had to play sports with my father. We were on a bowling league (sponsored by the "Brass Collar Bar") for a couple of years. Before or after that game of catch? I can't really remember.
I do know that he was proud of me in spite of my own limited athletic skills. He took great joy in the fact that I won the high game of the season in that league and yes, most of it was due to his long ago bowling instructions.
"Happy Birthday" and thanks again Dad. I'll be visiting the scrapbook soon and marvelling anew at what an enormously talented athlete and father you were. I never got the chance to tell you in person but I have it now...I love you.
Bill.
What a thing of beauty it was to see his father cradling the black, sixteen pound bowling ball, gracefully stepping forward-one, two, three, four, and ending with a final smooth left foot slide. Dad released the ball and the pins at the end of the long wooden alley exploded.
"Thats the way you do it Billy! Snap your right hand up like you're holding a suitcase or shaking someone's hand" he instructed, "And don't forget to hit that second arrow!"
Dad always made sports look so easy. Had it really been almost fifty years since that first bowling lesson?
I gently place the dog-eared scrapbook on my lap and open it ever so carefully. One must be cautious when examining precious memories, especially the ones my grandmother collected for her son. They fall apart easily.
It isn't long before the headlines capture my attention:
"JONES AND PLOPAN LEAD IN VICTORY!"
"RED RAIDERS SWAMP FOE BY 19-0 SCORE!"
"ROGER JONES IS ONLY ECORSE BOY TO WIN TWO SETS!"
It amazes me still that those faded newspaper cutouts refer to a)Basketball b)Football c)Tennis and somewhere in that scrapbook there are at least a few articles about Dad's boxing exploits. He was just plain good at everything he tried as far as sports (golfing, baseball and "fishing" included). Maintaining a steady job is a subject for another time but eventually he excelled at that too.
My friend Tony and I stand in the backcourt opposite my father who is in the process of rising up towards the sky and deftly smashing a tennis ball across a vinyl trimmed net. For a change, the ball does not appear to be moving anywhere near as fast as it usually does. I eagerly charge forward to smash it back.
Incredibly, the slow moving serve arcs softly over the net, spins upward perhaps a foot and then dribbles back to the cement. My racket whooshes forward just above the apex of the balls bounce. My Dad is chuckling.
"Dad!!! No Fair!!!" I whine in my rage filled thirteen year-old voice, "You said you wouldn't put spin on it!!!"
Not too much later, Dad hits a slicing drop shot which causes Tony to severely twist his ankle trying to return it. The match is over for this particular day and in the end we were all laughing about Dad's trickery. Besides, we knew that some of what he had taught us (the hard way) would come in handy in matches against our buddies eventually.
Not all of the scrapbooks contents deal with stellar athletic endeavors; there is a faded musical program noting a piece my father is playing (or singing); an article referring to his induction into the Marine Corp and more than a few souvenir dance booklets. Dancing was a skill that helped him win the heart and feet of my mother. He was awesome at "hoofing" it too...just ask my wife, who had several opportunities to swing dance with him before his untimely passing.
Early last month, my cousin Phil (the family historian) had asked if any family members wished to add anything about Dad, who left this world in September of 1976. We were now celebrating the occasion of his birth in June of 1923.
In addition to what I've already written, I wish to say this Phil: Out of all the "Uncles", my Dad was certainly the most well-rounded (if not the best) athlete of the entire bunch. I only wish that he lived a lot longer and taken better care of himself. There were so many stories I've missed about legendary family golf, horseshoe and other competitions I would love to have heard and Dad? Well, he never was one to brag about his own exploits. Thank god his mom kept track of some of them.
The sturdy young man with long brown hair squats and positions himself in the stance of a baseball catcher. The pitcher is his nearly fifty year old father who begins a slow windmill-like windup as he prepares to deliver the ball. This is how they played it in the Marines...fast pitch, underhand.
In the span of perhaps a second, the softball whizzes like an out of control mini-Sputnik, wobbling and dipping toward the catchers unprotected face. Instinctively, he raises his mitt.
Having saved himself a broken nose or worse, the young man removes his glove and massages his swollen, reddening fingers.
"I think thats all I want to play for today, Dad", he says. "I guess fast-pitch isn't for sissies."
That may have been the last opportunity I had to play sports with my father. We were on a bowling league (sponsored by the "Brass Collar Bar") for a couple of years. Before or after that game of catch? I can't really remember.
I do know that he was proud of me in spite of my own limited athletic skills. He took great joy in the fact that I won the high game of the season in that league and yes, most of it was due to his long ago bowling instructions.
"Happy Birthday" and thanks again Dad. I'll be visiting the scrapbook soon and marvelling anew at what an enormously talented athlete and father you were. I never got the chance to tell you in person but I have it now...I love you.
Bill.
Monday, June 21, 2010
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME...
On May 17th of this year, the daughter of two dear friends gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. The infant has long, perfectly-formed fingers that curl up tightly into tiny clenching then un-clenching fists which will latch firmly onto an adults hand if offered. I am left to wonder how many years it will be until that lovingly offered grasp is no longer needed.
Now that our son and his wife are expecting their first child in January, the words to a couple of songs I had written are locked firmly in my noggin and they need to be released before too much cranial pressure builds up. The first tune is for the friends baby with the beautiful, beautiful name. The second song was written for a lovely wedding which took place nearly ten years ago...a wedding that will ultimately produce our first grandchild early in the new year.
LULLABY AVA ROSE
Lullaby Ava Rose
A full moon shines on the lake
And the waves gleam silver in the light,
Close your eyes, close your eyes
As you listen to the sounds
Of wild things who sing in the night.
A lonesome loon calls, For he misses his mate
As she sleeps in her nest in the reeds,
Oh he'll bring back a dinner
Of fishies and frogs
Lullaby Ava Rose, Lullaby...
Gently rock on the water, Oh the boats they do call
And green grass caresses the sand-
Lullaby Ava Rose, Lullaby Ava Rose
God holds you, in the palm of his hand-
And the wind softly whispers, The sound of your name
As we rock in the old wooden chair,
Close your eyes, close your eyes
Time to sleep little one...
Lullaby Ava Rose, Lullaby,
Close your eyes, close your eyes
Time to sleep little one...
Lullaby Ava Rose, Lullaby.
And if I open up my soul, I can still feel the trust, softness and innocence of our own two children cuddled up in my lap, loving nothing better than the beginning of a good story book.
I CAN'T IMAGINE...
Was it so long ago, I read stories to you
In my soft-backed chair?
And was it yesterday, I watched you play "Tag"
On a summer's eve?
You've grown so
I don't know...
Can't imagine where the years have gone,
The years have gone.
A baby girl, with your big brown eyes
Your daddy loves you so,
Across the miles, momma calls to you
"Baby come back home!"
Can't now Mom,
I'm grown now
And I've found a love forever of my own.
Spread your wings, it's time to fly away,
We bless your lives on this, your wedding day
In our hearts you're always here,
Through the good times
And the tears-
Two one time "kids"
Now a family of their own
Mmm, a rockin chair
On the big front porch,
A glass of lemonade-
Grandma and I, cast our memories back
Into the evening shade,
It's gone so fast, I don't know...
Someday you'll wonder where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
Grandma and I just got off the phone with the new parents to be. The "kids" got to hear the baby's heart beat and see a picture of what a child looks like at the tender age of ten-weeks so they are totally excited. No one is as excited as my lovely wife however. She has huge plans for he/she.
Grandpa prays for a healthy delivery, a cool baby name so he can write more songs and finally that time slows down just a bit because the years truly have gone by in the blink of an eye. There, my head is empty now (more so than usual). Blog to ya later and thanks again for reading!
Now that our son and his wife are expecting their first child in January, the words to a couple of songs I had written are locked firmly in my noggin and they need to be released before too much cranial pressure builds up. The first tune is for the friends baby with the beautiful, beautiful name. The second song was written for a lovely wedding which took place nearly ten years ago...a wedding that will ultimately produce our first grandchild early in the new year.
LULLABY AVA ROSE
Lullaby Ava Rose
A full moon shines on the lake
And the waves gleam silver in the light,
Close your eyes, close your eyes
As you listen to the sounds
Of wild things who sing in the night.
A lonesome loon calls, For he misses his mate
As she sleeps in her nest in the reeds,
Oh he'll bring back a dinner
Of fishies and frogs
Lullaby Ava Rose, Lullaby...
Gently rock on the water, Oh the boats they do call
And green grass caresses the sand-
Lullaby Ava Rose, Lullaby Ava Rose
God holds you, in the palm of his hand-
And the wind softly whispers, The sound of your name
As we rock in the old wooden chair,
Close your eyes, close your eyes
Time to sleep little one...
Lullaby Ava Rose, Lullaby,
Close your eyes, close your eyes
Time to sleep little one...
Lullaby Ava Rose, Lullaby.
And if I open up my soul, I can still feel the trust, softness and innocence of our own two children cuddled up in my lap, loving nothing better than the beginning of a good story book.
I CAN'T IMAGINE...
Was it so long ago, I read stories to you
In my soft-backed chair?
And was it yesterday, I watched you play "Tag"
On a summer's eve?
You've grown so
I don't know...
Can't imagine where the years have gone,
The years have gone.
A baby girl, with your big brown eyes
Your daddy loves you so,
Across the miles, momma calls to you
"Baby come back home!"
Can't now Mom,
I'm grown now
And I've found a love forever of my own.
Spread your wings, it's time to fly away,
We bless your lives on this, your wedding day
In our hearts you're always here,
Through the good times
And the tears-
Two one time "kids"
Now a family of their own
Mmm, a rockin chair
On the big front porch,
A glass of lemonade-
Grandma and I, cast our memories back
Into the evening shade,
It's gone so fast, I don't know...
Someday you'll wonder where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
Grandma and I just got off the phone with the new parents to be. The "kids" got to hear the baby's heart beat and see a picture of what a child looks like at the tender age of ten-weeks so they are totally excited. No one is as excited as my lovely wife however. She has huge plans for he/she.
Grandpa prays for a healthy delivery, a cool baby name so he can write more songs and finally that time slows down just a bit because the years truly have gone by in the blink of an eye. There, my head is empty now (more so than usual). Blog to ya later and thanks again for reading!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
SITTIN ON THE DOCK OF THE LAKE
Ten or twelve small mouth bass looking much like pale green mini-torpedos shot out from beneath the dock as our sandalled feet slapped across its aluminum surface. After placing our small blue cooler in the shadows next to the pontoon boat I carefully rigged up my fishing pole as my wife dangled her calves in the cool blue water. Another great day to be retired.
Of course it wasn't long before the non-fisher questions and chatter began;
"Do you think we should angle the lift out a bit?" the foot dangler almost immediately asked as I cast my lure. "Do you think Rich needs to move his out a bit?" she continued, "He said he wanted it out deeper".
Still nursing her small glass bottle of some sort of pre-mixed tequila, she also sweetly inquired if I had noticed her shiny red toenail polish as I whipped a lure back over my shoulder and out into the lake. Smiling with the understanding that comes from nearly forty years of marital bliss, I replied with complete honesty, "You look really hot, baby!" Lord knows, she still does to me.
Not all that many years ago I wrote a song about the things I would miss if either myself or the love of my life were no longer around. Even with the seemingly never ending questions there is no doubt nothing would ever be the same. There are so many things I would miss:
WHATS OUT THERE?
Whats out there? I haven't got a clue,
But I know what I'm gonna miss
When my old Nikes ain't
Runnin down the roads anymore
Out on the front porch, with a tall cold drink
And the softest lips that I know,
And the way your breath kinda tickles
The inside of my ear...
After the years, go by.
I like the way that you look in the tub
And the bubbles look like islands
In a stream and we're thinkin about
Maybe sailin on over to the bed,
Yeah thats a good dream, inside my head
And I know that someday its gonna end,
Maybe in heaven we can do this
All over again...my best friend,
After the years, go by.
After all the years have come and gone,
Will our memories still live on and on,
Or just fade away like footprints in the sand?
It would seem so sad to me,
If for all of eternity,
All we'd done was nothing but...a memory,
After the years go by.
And so, with the admonition that we remind ourselves of each day we are fortunate enough to see another vibrant red sunset sinking behind the pines; "Enjoy life because you never know what will happen tomorrow". I truly did enjoy today honey. Hope you did too, even if I was a bit quiet at times.
Of course it wasn't long before the non-fisher questions and chatter began;
"Do you think we should angle the lift out a bit?" the foot dangler almost immediately asked as I cast my lure. "Do you think Rich needs to move his out a bit?" she continued, "He said he wanted it out deeper".
Still nursing her small glass bottle of some sort of pre-mixed tequila, she also sweetly inquired if I had noticed her shiny red toenail polish as I whipped a lure back over my shoulder and out into the lake. Smiling with the understanding that comes from nearly forty years of marital bliss, I replied with complete honesty, "You look really hot, baby!" Lord knows, she still does to me.
Not all that many years ago I wrote a song about the things I would miss if either myself or the love of my life were no longer around. Even with the seemingly never ending questions there is no doubt nothing would ever be the same. There are so many things I would miss:
WHATS OUT THERE?
Whats out there? I haven't got a clue,
But I know what I'm gonna miss
When my old Nikes ain't
Runnin down the roads anymore
Out on the front porch, with a tall cold drink
And the softest lips that I know,
And the way your breath kinda tickles
The inside of my ear...
After the years, go by.
I like the way that you look in the tub
And the bubbles look like islands
In a stream and we're thinkin about
Maybe sailin on over to the bed,
Yeah thats a good dream, inside my head
And I know that someday its gonna end,
Maybe in heaven we can do this
All over again...my best friend,
After the years, go by.
After all the years have come and gone,
Will our memories still live on and on,
Or just fade away like footprints in the sand?
It would seem so sad to me,
If for all of eternity,
All we'd done was nothing but...a memory,
After the years go by.
And so, with the admonition that we remind ourselves of each day we are fortunate enough to see another vibrant red sunset sinking behind the pines; "Enjoy life because you never know what will happen tomorrow". I truly did enjoy today honey. Hope you did too, even if I was a bit quiet at times.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
THE HOME OF THE BRAVE
Jacob took the eight pound metal ball from my hand, concentrated with all his might and flung it...backwards and over his right shoulder where it thudded to the dirt about four feet from where he stood. One of the first Special Olympians I was helping supervise had just completed his initial attempt at the shotput.
Part of the Special Olympics motto goes something like this; "Let me win, but if I cannot win then at least let me be brave in the attempt". For the second year in a row I got to witness tremendous bravery, innocence and above all...unbridled joy and enthusiasm during this wind blown, chilly day on a local high school football field. Once we got Jacob facing the right way, he made two more throws that were ten times farther than his first attempt and I think he was excited but its hard to tell sometimes with special needs "students".
Another contestant was led over by her teacher, Michael. Unable to walk on her own without a steadying hand to guide her, "Helen" shuffled into the small circle to attempt a throw. Of undetermined age, skinny as a rail and wobbling badly, I wasn't sure if she would even be able to hold onto the six pound shot. Michael held her steady as we placed the small grey sphere into Helen's gnarled hand.
"Alright Helen, lift her up and let it fly!!!" Michael yelled.
Surprisingly, she lifted her arm up shoulder high, stepped six inches forward while gripping tightly to her instructor's elbow and heaved mightily. The shot landed perhaps two and a half feet away. A loud chorus of cheering filled the air.
Helen giggled excitedly behind her darkened sun glasses and beneath her floppy hat. It suddenly occured to me that she either couldn't see at all or was at least extremely visually impaired and we enthusiastically cheered again as she completed her next two tosses. Brave in the attempt indeed.
Later on as I tried to assist my wife at the "prize table" (face painting, sand sculpures in tiny empty coke bottles, and assorted other crafts), we watched some of the Olympians groove to the music provided by a guitar strumming musician. As he launched into a rousing rendition of "Little Red Riding Hood" an eerie echo of loud wolf-like howling filled the air beneath the bleachers everytime he reached the chorus.
A young man in a black windbreaker rested his fingers on the blonde wooden surface of the guitar players instrument. His mother who had been searching for him after he had wandered away from her exclaimed, "There you are Jimmie! I knew I would find you wherever the music was!" Jimmy's mom explained to us that he loved to put his hands on the guitar so he could feel the vibration of the guitar's strings as it was being played. Doing this was his way of rocking out.
As a final memory on this most excellent of days, we listened to loud and enthusiastic cheering as contestants were awarded their ribbons. Not saying a word, a heavy-set young man wearing a bright colored Nascar racing hat, smiled a secret smile as he approached my wife and I. Slowly unzipping his jacket, he revealed to us the red second-place ribbon he had just won. The proud look that spread a mile wide across his beard stubbled face said more than any amount of words could as he slowly wandered off to show others his prize. To my delight and that of the crowd, "Helen" also won a ribbon but then again, I think that probably everyone did.
In this age of budget cuts, downsizing and a lack of funding for projects like the Special Olympics, I can only hope that activities such as this track meet continue to be held on a regular basis. My wife and I so much treasure the memory of this wonderful day and I cannot begin to imagine how much it meant to these special, special "competitors".
You were extremely brave dear athletes and God willing, I sincerely hope to see all of your joyful, smiling faces again, year after year after year. Winning is definitely not...everything.
Part of the Special Olympics motto goes something like this; "Let me win, but if I cannot win then at least let me be brave in the attempt". For the second year in a row I got to witness tremendous bravery, innocence and above all...unbridled joy and enthusiasm during this wind blown, chilly day on a local high school football field. Once we got Jacob facing the right way, he made two more throws that were ten times farther than his first attempt and I think he was excited but its hard to tell sometimes with special needs "students".
Another contestant was led over by her teacher, Michael. Unable to walk on her own without a steadying hand to guide her, "Helen" shuffled into the small circle to attempt a throw. Of undetermined age, skinny as a rail and wobbling badly, I wasn't sure if she would even be able to hold onto the six pound shot. Michael held her steady as we placed the small grey sphere into Helen's gnarled hand.
"Alright Helen, lift her up and let it fly!!!" Michael yelled.
Surprisingly, she lifted her arm up shoulder high, stepped six inches forward while gripping tightly to her instructor's elbow and heaved mightily. The shot landed perhaps two and a half feet away. A loud chorus of cheering filled the air.
Helen giggled excitedly behind her darkened sun glasses and beneath her floppy hat. It suddenly occured to me that she either couldn't see at all or was at least extremely visually impaired and we enthusiastically cheered again as she completed her next two tosses. Brave in the attempt indeed.
Later on as I tried to assist my wife at the "prize table" (face painting, sand sculpures in tiny empty coke bottles, and assorted other crafts), we watched some of the Olympians groove to the music provided by a guitar strumming musician. As he launched into a rousing rendition of "Little Red Riding Hood" an eerie echo of loud wolf-like howling filled the air beneath the bleachers everytime he reached the chorus.
A young man in a black windbreaker rested his fingers on the blonde wooden surface of the guitar players instrument. His mother who had been searching for him after he had wandered away from her exclaimed, "There you are Jimmie! I knew I would find you wherever the music was!" Jimmy's mom explained to us that he loved to put his hands on the guitar so he could feel the vibration of the guitar's strings as it was being played. Doing this was his way of rocking out.
As a final memory on this most excellent of days, we listened to loud and enthusiastic cheering as contestants were awarded their ribbons. Not saying a word, a heavy-set young man wearing a bright colored Nascar racing hat, smiled a secret smile as he approached my wife and I. Slowly unzipping his jacket, he revealed to us the red second-place ribbon he had just won. The proud look that spread a mile wide across his beard stubbled face said more than any amount of words could as he slowly wandered off to show others his prize. To my delight and that of the crowd, "Helen" also won a ribbon but then again, I think that probably everyone did.
In this age of budget cuts, downsizing and a lack of funding for projects like the Special Olympics, I can only hope that activities such as this track meet continue to be held on a regular basis. My wife and I so much treasure the memory of this wonderful day and I cannot begin to imagine how much it meant to these special, special "competitors".
You were extremely brave dear athletes and God willing, I sincerely hope to see all of your joyful, smiling faces again, year after year after year. Winning is definitely not...everything.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
I CAN'T GET YOU OUT OF MY MIND
DO DO DUNH! DO DUNH! DO DUNH! DO DO DUNH! DO DO DUNH DO DUNH! MY SHARONNA!!!
Someone had written a story for Runners World magazine back in the early eighties, complaining that they just could not get that song out of their head while jogging. Immediately after I read the column, "My Sharonna" became permanently etched in my own noggin for several years, while running or not.
Why is it that music takes such complete control of our subconscious mind? What makes a simple tune about a sexy girl dominate a man's feeble brain for thirty seconds of every hour of every day, week after week after week? As usual, I have a couple of theories to offer on this subject.
Mostly, popular music is feeling related. I vividly remember when a song called "The Duke Of Earl" came on the air sometime back in the early sixties. At the time I had a huge crush on a sweet little thing with blonde hair and blue eyes who didn't even know of my existence and by the time whoever sang it (my older brother will know the answer to this immediately) finished, I had big salty tears rolling down my cheeks. I guess it was because I realized that this girl would probably never "walk through my dukedom" or ever in fact "be my girl".
In addition to stirring up impossibly achey feelings regardless of lyrical content, songs simply remind us of our mortality. This has become increasingly evident as I edge further and further from that hot asphalt playground where I heard the "Duke Of Earl" tinnily playing from a friends transistor radio. Now, thanks to the miracle of color t.v. and very creative advertising, I have a more age-appropriate visualization to occupy my mind for almost every waking moment.
DA DA DA...DA DA DA DA DA...DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA, DA DA DA DA!
The camera pans slowly right and shows a balding, pleasant looking old fella with dozens of liver spots speckling his shiny dome. He has a red napkin tucked into his shirt and is smiling very contentedly as he clutches a fork in his right hand, preparing to dig into a large, delicious looking slab of meat. A trumpet song from the forties provides background music.
An unseen woman begins to speak;
"Forty two years with this character", she says.
"The whining...my gosh all the whining", as the music continues play softly, "And the snoring! Every night with the snoring!!!"
"Forty two years with this character and yet...", (long pause)"He still loves me!"
The camera shows an equally lovable, elderly lady on the other side of the dinner table who finishes by saying, "Happy anniversary, darlin!".
Soon it will be time for this old timer to head for his bed. Somewhere in the space of my crammed up cranium, the haunting lyrics of at least two of my all time favorite songs and one t.v. commercial will echo endlessly as I search for sleep. I simply can't get them out of my mind.
Someone had written a story for Runners World magazine back in the early eighties, complaining that they just could not get that song out of their head while jogging. Immediately after I read the column, "My Sharonna" became permanently etched in my own noggin for several years, while running or not.
Why is it that music takes such complete control of our subconscious mind? What makes a simple tune about a sexy girl dominate a man's feeble brain for thirty seconds of every hour of every day, week after week after week? As usual, I have a couple of theories to offer on this subject.
Mostly, popular music is feeling related. I vividly remember when a song called "The Duke Of Earl" came on the air sometime back in the early sixties. At the time I had a huge crush on a sweet little thing with blonde hair and blue eyes who didn't even know of my existence and by the time whoever sang it (my older brother will know the answer to this immediately) finished, I had big salty tears rolling down my cheeks. I guess it was because I realized that this girl would probably never "walk through my dukedom" or ever in fact "be my girl".
In addition to stirring up impossibly achey feelings regardless of lyrical content, songs simply remind us of our mortality. This has become increasingly evident as I edge further and further from that hot asphalt playground where I heard the "Duke Of Earl" tinnily playing from a friends transistor radio. Now, thanks to the miracle of color t.v. and very creative advertising, I have a more age-appropriate visualization to occupy my mind for almost every waking moment.
DA DA DA...DA DA DA DA DA...DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA, DA DA DA DA!
The camera pans slowly right and shows a balding, pleasant looking old fella with dozens of liver spots speckling his shiny dome. He has a red napkin tucked into his shirt and is smiling very contentedly as he clutches a fork in his right hand, preparing to dig into a large, delicious looking slab of meat. A trumpet song from the forties provides background music.
An unseen woman begins to speak;
"Forty two years with this character", she says.
"The whining...my gosh all the whining", as the music continues play softly, "And the snoring! Every night with the snoring!!!"
"Forty two years with this character and yet...", (long pause)"He still loves me!"
The camera shows an equally lovable, elderly lady on the other side of the dinner table who finishes by saying, "Happy anniversary, darlin!".
Soon it will be time for this old timer to head for his bed. Somewhere in the space of my crammed up cranium, the haunting lyrics of at least two of my all time favorite songs and one t.v. commercial will echo endlessly as I search for sleep. I simply can't get them out of my mind.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
RETURN FROM THE BIRTHDAY BASH
Driving down an almost deserted stretch of highway at dusk, the top half of the trees lining the road were ablaze with light from a bright orange sun seeking it's sleep behind the hills for yet another night. And after a great day of celebrating my wife's 60th birthday, we were trying to make it to the beach in time to witness what would be a lovely end to this already wonderful day...a spectacular lakefront sunset.
"Don't you want to be with me?" she asked as if offended by a bit of husbandly musing that I'd just offered off the top of my balding little head. I had to think a bit before I answered my wife' question.
Earlier in the week as we drove home from playing golf, my brother-out of the clear blue sky, wondered if I had any plans for disposing of my body when I eventually leave this world. He has already brought a plot in the same familiar cemetary that so many of our friends and relatives rest eternally in down near the railroad tracks of our small hometown. Presumably, my elder sibling and his wife will be cremated and lie together forever beneath the shade of the elms, oaks and maples in that most peaceful of places. I, on the other hand am not so sure where in the heck I want to end up. Too many variables.
My wife has told me more than once that she wants to be cremated and stored inside a little box next to the one her mother has. As much as I love my wife and also cherished my mother in law, the thought of spending perpetuity inside the wall vault of her mom's favorite church doesn't exactly thrill me. This was what I was trying to explain to my spouse without hurting her feelings too much.
My brother brought up another important reason for not coming to a concrete decision on that final resting spot: What if our spouses outlive us and end up with someone else (knowing our family history, there is more than good possibility of this happening)? Which one of their husbands/boyfriends would they pick to be with? I can almost say with complete certainty that if my wife meets a handsome stud who loves nothing better than doing home improvement projects and playing Scrabble, I know who she will end up with after my departure from this planet.
In the end (literally), I think I will want to be in the most places possible; a little with my wife if she still has fond memories of my time with her; perhaps a small jar of my ashes scattered among the wildflowers bordering the dirt road of my favorite jogging route; the rest of me sprinkled among the sun-speckled memorial stones that watch patiently over my mom and dad's final place of rest. It isn't that I don't want to be with you alone honey and there will lots of me to go around. Does that answer your question?
As we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot facing the lake, the golden half-globe of a brilliant sun was sinking behind a row of pine trees and sending a shimmering walkway of light across the lake toward our car. My wife and I held hands while giving thanks for yet another day of feeling blessed and I expressed a fond hope that when I got to be her age, I would have an equally good birthday.
OWWWW!!!
"Don't you want to be with me?" she asked as if offended by a bit of husbandly musing that I'd just offered off the top of my balding little head. I had to think a bit before I answered my wife' question.
Earlier in the week as we drove home from playing golf, my brother-out of the clear blue sky, wondered if I had any plans for disposing of my body when I eventually leave this world. He has already brought a plot in the same familiar cemetary that so many of our friends and relatives rest eternally in down near the railroad tracks of our small hometown. Presumably, my elder sibling and his wife will be cremated and lie together forever beneath the shade of the elms, oaks and maples in that most peaceful of places. I, on the other hand am not so sure where in the heck I want to end up. Too many variables.
My wife has told me more than once that she wants to be cremated and stored inside a little box next to the one her mother has. As much as I love my wife and also cherished my mother in law, the thought of spending perpetuity inside the wall vault of her mom's favorite church doesn't exactly thrill me. This was what I was trying to explain to my spouse without hurting her feelings too much.
My brother brought up another important reason for not coming to a concrete decision on that final resting spot: What if our spouses outlive us and end up with someone else (knowing our family history, there is more than good possibility of this happening)? Which one of their husbands/boyfriends would they pick to be with? I can almost say with complete certainty that if my wife meets a handsome stud who loves nothing better than doing home improvement projects and playing Scrabble, I know who she will end up with after my departure from this planet.
In the end (literally), I think I will want to be in the most places possible; a little with my wife if she still has fond memories of my time with her; perhaps a small jar of my ashes scattered among the wildflowers bordering the dirt road of my favorite jogging route; the rest of me sprinkled among the sun-speckled memorial stones that watch patiently over my mom and dad's final place of rest. It isn't that I don't want to be with you alone honey and there will lots of me to go around. Does that answer your question?
As we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot facing the lake, the golden half-globe of a brilliant sun was sinking behind a row of pine trees and sending a shimmering walkway of light across the lake toward our car. My wife and I held hands while giving thanks for yet another day of feeling blessed and I expressed a fond hope that when I got to be her age, I would have an equally good birthday.
OWWWW!!!
Saturday, April 24, 2010
IN MY ROOM
"There's a place where I can go and tell my secrets to...In my room, in my room". By the Beach Boys
Since my mom was the one who convinced my dad that I truly deserved my first guitar, it is her picture that holds a place of honor in my music room.
From a slim, ornate bronzed frame she smiles happily at whoever is taking the photograph. Dressed in a pretty pink and white vertically striped summer outfit, you can tell that she is truly happy as she poses on a sandy beach, her ankles being softly caressed by the foamy surf of the Irish Sea. Thanks, mom.
This room is my special place. It is filled with all the musical and memory treasures I have accumulated in my nearly sixty years on this planet. Many of the pieces I have now are light years away from that first poorly constructed but lovingly procured Sears guitar purchased for me by my parents. They could ill afford the expense at the time and I only wish now that they could see what they started with that long ago Christmas gift of theirs.
Inside the mirrored exterior of a wall-sized closet stands a four foot long tubular rack holding stringed instruments. A beautiful big blonde Guild acoustic faces the back of a shiny Ovation 12-string guitar. Behind the Guild, a sunburst colored mandolin and the now familiar rounded shape of a five-string banjo beckon my fingertips when the time is just right. In positions adjacent to each other, a purple bass guitar and half sized electronic keyboard patiently await their turns, while the lord of them all, my trusty cherry red, cream-color trimmed Les Paul perches on his stand.
I think back with wonder to the long ago days when the old high school rock band would beg to borrow a buddy's six speaker amp. The same amplifier would blast out our microphone (we could only afford one) as well as our fully turned up, screeching electric guitars. This all made for some nearly incomprehensible song lyrics but that was fine since we often didn't remember all of the words anyway. As long as there were girls and dancing, who cared?
These days if I want to sound good, I simply plug my incredibly beautiful, easy playing Taylor guitar into a Fender Acoustasonic amplifier and adjust a few dials. There are two music books available, each containing scores of tunes worked out or written during the past forty five years. If I had what I have now back in the mid-sixties, there is no doubt in my mind that I could have gone on to much greater musical fame or...I could have just as easily ended up like one of the Jimmies - Morrison or Hendrix.
I guess it's time for this fair to middlin' musician to go use some of this swell stuff. As I sit on my solid four legged stool crooning my little heart away, I will look with great fondness at the other objects surrounding me; Mom and Dad's wedding photo, a special brown and white souvenier Coors beer baseball bat bottle, a hand drawn "Superman Rising" poster, and a black and white collage of fellow musicians jamming in our old basement. That room was a truly special place with enormously huge, spectacular speakers...just ask my wife, she remembers them well.
Thanks again not only to Mom for getting me started, but also to all of you who contributed to making this small musical hideaway the unique place that it is. As a very large Hallmark card (a birthday gift from an old friend) sitting on a table near my music stand proclaims;
"It ain't over till one of us slurs 'Yer My Best Frrrriend!!!'"
You'll always be my best friends, especially in this place where I can temporarily forget "all my worries and my cares"...in my room, in my room.
Since my mom was the one who convinced my dad that I truly deserved my first guitar, it is her picture that holds a place of honor in my music room.
From a slim, ornate bronzed frame she smiles happily at whoever is taking the photograph. Dressed in a pretty pink and white vertically striped summer outfit, you can tell that she is truly happy as she poses on a sandy beach, her ankles being softly caressed by the foamy surf of the Irish Sea. Thanks, mom.
This room is my special place. It is filled with all the musical and memory treasures I have accumulated in my nearly sixty years on this planet. Many of the pieces I have now are light years away from that first poorly constructed but lovingly procured Sears guitar purchased for me by my parents. They could ill afford the expense at the time and I only wish now that they could see what they started with that long ago Christmas gift of theirs.
Inside the mirrored exterior of a wall-sized closet stands a four foot long tubular rack holding stringed instruments. A beautiful big blonde Guild acoustic faces the back of a shiny Ovation 12-string guitar. Behind the Guild, a sunburst colored mandolin and the now familiar rounded shape of a five-string banjo beckon my fingertips when the time is just right. In positions adjacent to each other, a purple bass guitar and half sized electronic keyboard patiently await their turns, while the lord of them all, my trusty cherry red, cream-color trimmed Les Paul perches on his stand.
I think back with wonder to the long ago days when the old high school rock band would beg to borrow a buddy's six speaker amp. The same amplifier would blast out our microphone (we could only afford one) as well as our fully turned up, screeching electric guitars. This all made for some nearly incomprehensible song lyrics but that was fine since we often didn't remember all of the words anyway. As long as there were girls and dancing, who cared?
These days if I want to sound good, I simply plug my incredibly beautiful, easy playing Taylor guitar into a Fender Acoustasonic amplifier and adjust a few dials. There are two music books available, each containing scores of tunes worked out or written during the past forty five years. If I had what I have now back in the mid-sixties, there is no doubt in my mind that I could have gone on to much greater musical fame or...I could have just as easily ended up like one of the Jimmies - Morrison or Hendrix.
I guess it's time for this fair to middlin' musician to go use some of this swell stuff. As I sit on my solid four legged stool crooning my little heart away, I will look with great fondness at the other objects surrounding me; Mom and Dad's wedding photo, a special brown and white souvenier Coors beer baseball bat bottle, a hand drawn "Superman Rising" poster, and a black and white collage of fellow musicians jamming in our old basement. That room was a truly special place with enormously huge, spectacular speakers...just ask my wife, she remembers them well.
Thanks again not only to Mom for getting me started, but also to all of you who contributed to making this small musical hideaway the unique place that it is. As a very large Hallmark card (a birthday gift from an old friend) sitting on a table near my music stand proclaims;
"It ain't over till one of us slurs 'Yer My Best Frrrriend!!!'"
You'll always be my best friends, especially in this place where I can temporarily forget "all my worries and my cares"...in my room, in my room.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
RETURN TO "THE PUMP"
The offer was simply too good to pass up;
"Bill, this is Bob", the voice on the phone said, "I'm going up to the Pump for a beer but I gotta stop at Foster's Market first. Wanna go?" My wife and I were sceduled to go out for dinner soon on this friday late afternoon but god love her, I received Eileen's blessing for our little adventure. Five minutes later, Bob's beat up old brown Buick rolled up to the house.
Another fifteen minutes, a small bunch of bananas, a can of hot-dog sauce (I had no idea they even made such a thing) and a losing $1 lottery ticket later, the two of us entered the bar's dimly lit interior. Knowing Eileen was going to be picking me up for the aforementioned dinner date, I quickly ordered two cold drafts for Bob and I. Might as well make the most of our drinking time, right?
As usual, it never ceases to amaze me how fast an hour can go. Bob seemed to know pretty much everyone in the place. There were several young kids who had gone to school with his daughter, people he knew from his working life and half a dozen other characters happily sipping their beers and puffing contentedly on their cigarettes. Somewhere between Bob telling me one of his hilarious Viet Nam stories and studying the bar's patrons, I noticed a tall, well dressed stranger set himself easily down at the end of the counter.
"Man, I'm glad the Pump was on my way to the cottage" he declared, "That construction on M-31's a killer!"
The stranger, Bob and I laughed about the seemingly endless construction on the areas local roads and it wasn't long before my curiosity got the better of me and I began asking questions, starting with what his name was and where he was headed. Something about the man seemed a bit too refined for the usual clientele I normally met in the Pump.
His name was "Rick", he was on his way to a cottage his dad owned to the north and he was coming from of all places, Chicago. Several exchanges later, Rick knew that Bob and I were retired and that we had all gone to parochial school in the Detroit area. All of us had some good nun and priest stories to tell.
As it turned out, Rick wasn't as much out of place in the Pump as I had originally thought. Even though he was impeccably dressed, had perfectly styled hair and wonder of all wonders...was a bureau chief for a national newspaper, Rick had something in common with all of us; a deep appreciation for a cold beer and a love of good conversation. The kind of things you'll find in a swell place like the Town Pump Saloon.
One of the benefits of asking lots of personal questions is that you get to know someone pretty well in the space of an hour. All too soon, Rick was rising up off his black vinyl barstool and heading out for the cottage. Not before he made the kind and gracious gesture of buying his two new friends another beer however. A good man indeed.
It wasn't long before my beautiful wife arrived and we made our own way out the front door and across the busy street for dinner at The Food Factory. Later on that evening, full of delicious fish sandwiches, potato chips and suds, I looked back with great satisfaction on my busy afternoon. In my mind I wondered if Rick might somehow, someday be thinking about writing about the two grizzled old retirees he happened to meet in a small town Michigan bar.
Mostly, I wondered if he will ever, ever know that even now-I am writing about him.
"Bill, this is Bob", the voice on the phone said, "I'm going up to the Pump for a beer but I gotta stop at Foster's Market first. Wanna go?" My wife and I were sceduled to go out for dinner soon on this friday late afternoon but god love her, I received Eileen's blessing for our little adventure. Five minutes later, Bob's beat up old brown Buick rolled up to the house.
Another fifteen minutes, a small bunch of bananas, a can of hot-dog sauce (I had no idea they even made such a thing) and a losing $1 lottery ticket later, the two of us entered the bar's dimly lit interior. Knowing Eileen was going to be picking me up for the aforementioned dinner date, I quickly ordered two cold drafts for Bob and I. Might as well make the most of our drinking time, right?
As usual, it never ceases to amaze me how fast an hour can go. Bob seemed to know pretty much everyone in the place. There were several young kids who had gone to school with his daughter, people he knew from his working life and half a dozen other characters happily sipping their beers and puffing contentedly on their cigarettes. Somewhere between Bob telling me one of his hilarious Viet Nam stories and studying the bar's patrons, I noticed a tall, well dressed stranger set himself easily down at the end of the counter.
"Man, I'm glad the Pump was on my way to the cottage" he declared, "That construction on M-31's a killer!"
The stranger, Bob and I laughed about the seemingly endless construction on the areas local roads and it wasn't long before my curiosity got the better of me and I began asking questions, starting with what his name was and where he was headed. Something about the man seemed a bit too refined for the usual clientele I normally met in the Pump.
His name was "Rick", he was on his way to a cottage his dad owned to the north and he was coming from of all places, Chicago. Several exchanges later, Rick knew that Bob and I were retired and that we had all gone to parochial school in the Detroit area. All of us had some good nun and priest stories to tell.
As it turned out, Rick wasn't as much out of place in the Pump as I had originally thought. Even though he was impeccably dressed, had perfectly styled hair and wonder of all wonders...was a bureau chief for a national newspaper, Rick had something in common with all of us; a deep appreciation for a cold beer and a love of good conversation. The kind of things you'll find in a swell place like the Town Pump Saloon.
One of the benefits of asking lots of personal questions is that you get to know someone pretty well in the space of an hour. All too soon, Rick was rising up off his black vinyl barstool and heading out for the cottage. Not before he made the kind and gracious gesture of buying his two new friends another beer however. A good man indeed.
It wasn't long before my beautiful wife arrived and we made our own way out the front door and across the busy street for dinner at The Food Factory. Later on that evening, full of delicious fish sandwiches, potato chips and suds, I looked back with great satisfaction on my busy afternoon. In my mind I wondered if Rick might somehow, someday be thinking about writing about the two grizzled old retirees he happened to meet in a small town Michigan bar.
Mostly, I wondered if he will ever, ever know that even now-I am writing about him.
Friday, April 9, 2010
DIGGING THROUGH THE PAST
12/06/50
Billy isn't the good baby he was. His formula wasn't strong enough so he was constipated and upset all the time...Dr. said to increase the formula and put two tablespoons of Karo syrup in it, so I did. It's agreeing much better with him and he's not constipated any more.
Thus began one of the initial entries in little Billy's (mine) official Better Homes And Gardens baby book circa 1950. Thank god for mom and Dr. McGlaughlin...I never did like feeling constipated.
There I was, down in the crowded confines of the basement portion of the addition we had added on to our house, searching through cartons of old books, shoeboxes of thirty year old photos and other long lost memorabilia accumulated through a lifetime of hoarding. Nothing is more difficult to let go of than the past.
My cousin had asked me if by chance I might have any old photos of herself and her siblings. It seems their mom didn't take too many pictures of the kids, especially the ones who arrived later on in life, a common fate for those children who peruse the family picture albums. The first born has thousands of artifacts. The last, a few snapshots, perhaps one of him squirming while unwillingly sitting on his older brother's lap.
I came across treasures like my daughter's collection of newspaper articles she had written while in college, long forgotten trophies I had won from dozens of running races, and of course - thousands of photos, none of which were the ones I was searching for. It was while looking through the last container that I stumbled across the "mother"lode (pardon the pun); my baby book.
All the doubts I ever had about my mom's ability to love me unconditionally began to vanish as I gently placed the stained and weathered volume on my upstairs desk and began to slowly page through it's contents. My life's history from prenatal to six years offered itself through the eyes of my at that time, twenty seven year old mother. It seemed incredible to me that she had ever been that young.
6/20/55
Have you grown up since I first started writing in this book! You're almost five years old now and you're a nice little boy. You're my "little boy". That means you're still "baby" enough to like me better than dad - for a year or so anyway. Tonight while you were laying on the couch with your head in my lap, you looked up at me and said, "I love you, mom". And I said to you, "I love you too, honey". Sometimes I wish I could put into words just how much I do love you Bill. There just aren't enough words to say it.
My eyes were watering more than just a little as I looked through the books photographs, journal entries and especially after turning one well-worn page and finding a small white envelope bearing mom's hand written words, "Billy...10 mos - Hair". Carefully, I opened it.
If there is any more wonderful feeling than the soft texture of a baby's locks, I truly don't know what it is. My long lost hair was no exception. Gently, I picked out the small bunch of brownish blonde fuzz and held it to my nose, half expecting to experience the delightful fragrance of Johnson and Johnson baby shampoo, a smell I had always cherished when my own babies were tiny. Alas, there was none other than in my mind.
As I am finishing writing this entry of my own, the baby book is cradled across my lap and opened to the last page. I have made myself a vow as I am looking at it: Whenever I have the tendancy to look back on my life with too much bitterness over the bad times I went through with my mom, I will simply open her loving documentary to the last page;
You're a very sweet baby, darling - stay that way. Be clean in mind and body, be true to yourself and love God. Daddy and I will help you as we're helping your older brother Rob. Love, Mommy
I love you too, Mom and I'm really glad that I redicovered that fact on my way to looking for other things.
lliB
Billy isn't the good baby he was. His formula wasn't strong enough so he was constipated and upset all the time...Dr. said to increase the formula and put two tablespoons of Karo syrup in it, so I did. It's agreeing much better with him and he's not constipated any more.
Thus began one of the initial entries in little Billy's (mine) official Better Homes And Gardens baby book circa 1950. Thank god for mom and Dr. McGlaughlin...I never did like feeling constipated.
There I was, down in the crowded confines of the basement portion of the addition we had added on to our house, searching through cartons of old books, shoeboxes of thirty year old photos and other long lost memorabilia accumulated through a lifetime of hoarding. Nothing is more difficult to let go of than the past.
My cousin had asked me if by chance I might have any old photos of herself and her siblings. It seems their mom didn't take too many pictures of the kids, especially the ones who arrived later on in life, a common fate for those children who peruse the family picture albums. The first born has thousands of artifacts. The last, a few snapshots, perhaps one of him squirming while unwillingly sitting on his older brother's lap.
I came across treasures like my daughter's collection of newspaper articles she had written while in college, long forgotten trophies I had won from dozens of running races, and of course - thousands of photos, none of which were the ones I was searching for. It was while looking through the last container that I stumbled across the "mother"lode (pardon the pun); my baby book.
All the doubts I ever had about my mom's ability to love me unconditionally began to vanish as I gently placed the stained and weathered volume on my upstairs desk and began to slowly page through it's contents. My life's history from prenatal to six years offered itself through the eyes of my at that time, twenty seven year old mother. It seemed incredible to me that she had ever been that young.
6/20/55
Have you grown up since I first started writing in this book! You're almost five years old now and you're a nice little boy. You're my "little boy". That means you're still "baby" enough to like me better than dad - for a year or so anyway. Tonight while you were laying on the couch with your head in my lap, you looked up at me and said, "I love you, mom". And I said to you, "I love you too, honey". Sometimes I wish I could put into words just how much I do love you Bill. There just aren't enough words to say it.
My eyes were watering more than just a little as I looked through the books photographs, journal entries and especially after turning one well-worn page and finding a small white envelope bearing mom's hand written words, "Billy...10 mos - Hair". Carefully, I opened it.
If there is any more wonderful feeling than the soft texture of a baby's locks, I truly don't know what it is. My long lost hair was no exception. Gently, I picked out the small bunch of brownish blonde fuzz and held it to my nose, half expecting to experience the delightful fragrance of Johnson and Johnson baby shampoo, a smell I had always cherished when my own babies were tiny. Alas, there was none other than in my mind.
As I am finishing writing this entry of my own, the baby book is cradled across my lap and opened to the last page. I have made myself a vow as I am looking at it: Whenever I have the tendancy to look back on my life with too much bitterness over the bad times I went through with my mom, I will simply open her loving documentary to the last page;
You're a very sweet baby, darling - stay that way. Be clean in mind and body, be true to yourself and love God. Daddy and I will help you as we're helping your older brother Rob. Love, Mommy
I love you too, Mom and I'm really glad that I redicovered that fact on my way to looking for other things.
lliB
Monday, April 5, 2010
CHILDHOOD LIVING...IS EASY TO DO
My bony fingers were stretched out next to Owens as I attempted to capture his concentration, "Its easy Owen" I cajoled, "E...D...A...D, E...D...A...D, just repeat those notes over and over. Its simple!"
My niece's youngest boy wasn't buying into "Uncle" Bill's musical instruction as I attempted to show him the rhythm line to "Gloria", one of the classic rock hits of all time, at least in this geezer's humble opinion. Owen's focus quickly shifted to a small black and white photo stuck in the corner of a guitar chord chart hanging on the wall directly behind the keyboard. "Who the heck is that, Uncle Bill?", he inquired innocently. I turned my gaze upward at the picture, gulped and made a grab for it.
The photo showed a dark-skinned native woman standing beside what appears to be a thatched hut. She is wearing some type of wrap-around cloth skirt while sporting a double stranded pearl necklace and holding a waist high banner declaring her to be; "Miss Bougainville". The semi-well endowed lady is also smoking a pipe and completely naked from the waist up. It is a souvenier from my fathers war time experiences and probably not something a third grader should be seeing but I had totally forgotten it was in my music room.
Two questions immediately flashed into my elderly, addled brain: One...how on earth do I explain this to Owen's parents, or worse yet...my wife? Two...do I make a big deal out of it or just act like its the most natural photo in the world? I chose the latter of the two actions but not before Owen's younger, first grade sister rattled off, "Why doesn't that lady have a top on Uncle Bill? Who is she? Can I see?!"
To the kids it was no big deal. I tried to explain how the picture was of a native woman on an island where the people didn't wear clothes because it was too hot and that Owen's great grandpa probably took it during World War Two a long, long time ago. Then I placed Miss Bougainville out of sight on top of my amplifier. Immediately, the crashing sounds of loud music and singing began to fill the air again. God bless their little hearts, innocence, and short attention spans.
Later on, before and after dinner I continued to marvel at Connor, Owen and Ellie's inquiring minds: Owen, upon spying several mourning doves pecking away at the ground beneath a bird feeder in front of our house, "Do...you...ever.., want to shoot those birds with a B.B. gun sometimes, Uncle Bill?" (Owen's dad is an avid wild game hunter and so are his boys). Ellie, on spying the long pointy fingernails on my right hand asks at least twice, "Why do you let your nails get so big, Uncle Bill?"
My answers are short and honest...no, I wouldn't shoot those birds because they are just hungry and...I keep my nails long Ellie so when I play the guitar they will make a nice sound on the strings. Then I show her how it works.
All too soon, they will gravitate toward other pursuits. The teen-age years will swiftly come calling, then its off to college, marriage and the drudgery of having to come to grips with jobs, paying bills and all the other nuisances that adulthood offers.
Like their elderly Uncle however, I hope they will at least be able to recreate that sweet joy of childhood when their own nieces and nephews come a callin some sunny Easter afternoon in springtime. Just before they get there "kids", be sure to scan your music room for unexpected surprises or at least be willing to answer their questions with complete honesty and most of all...love.
My niece's youngest boy wasn't buying into "Uncle" Bill's musical instruction as I attempted to show him the rhythm line to "Gloria", one of the classic rock hits of all time, at least in this geezer's humble opinion. Owen's focus quickly shifted to a small black and white photo stuck in the corner of a guitar chord chart hanging on the wall directly behind the keyboard. "Who the heck is that, Uncle Bill?", he inquired innocently. I turned my gaze upward at the picture, gulped and made a grab for it.
The photo showed a dark-skinned native woman standing beside what appears to be a thatched hut. She is wearing some type of wrap-around cloth skirt while sporting a double stranded pearl necklace and holding a waist high banner declaring her to be; "Miss Bougainville". The semi-well endowed lady is also smoking a pipe and completely naked from the waist up. It is a souvenier from my fathers war time experiences and probably not something a third grader should be seeing but I had totally forgotten it was in my music room.
Two questions immediately flashed into my elderly, addled brain: One...how on earth do I explain this to Owen's parents, or worse yet...my wife? Two...do I make a big deal out of it or just act like its the most natural photo in the world? I chose the latter of the two actions but not before Owen's younger, first grade sister rattled off, "Why doesn't that lady have a top on Uncle Bill? Who is she? Can I see?!"
To the kids it was no big deal. I tried to explain how the picture was of a native woman on an island where the people didn't wear clothes because it was too hot and that Owen's great grandpa probably took it during World War Two a long, long time ago. Then I placed Miss Bougainville out of sight on top of my amplifier. Immediately, the crashing sounds of loud music and singing began to fill the air again. God bless their little hearts, innocence, and short attention spans.
Later on, before and after dinner I continued to marvel at Connor, Owen and Ellie's inquiring minds: Owen, upon spying several mourning doves pecking away at the ground beneath a bird feeder in front of our house, "Do...you...ever.., want to shoot those birds with a B.B. gun sometimes, Uncle Bill?" (Owen's dad is an avid wild game hunter and so are his boys). Ellie, on spying the long pointy fingernails on my right hand asks at least twice, "Why do you let your nails get so big, Uncle Bill?"
My answers are short and honest...no, I wouldn't shoot those birds because they are just hungry and...I keep my nails long Ellie so when I play the guitar they will make a nice sound on the strings. Then I show her how it works.
All too soon, they will gravitate toward other pursuits. The teen-age years will swiftly come calling, then its off to college, marriage and the drudgery of having to come to grips with jobs, paying bills and all the other nuisances that adulthood offers.
Like their elderly Uncle however, I hope they will at least be able to recreate that sweet joy of childhood when their own nieces and nephews come a callin some sunny Easter afternoon in springtime. Just before they get there "kids", be sure to scan your music room for unexpected surprises or at least be willing to answer their questions with complete honesty and most of all...love.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
TUESDAYS AT THE PUMP
The scrolled wooden sign read; "THIS TOWN IS TOO SMALL FOR A TOWN DRUNK, SO WE ALL TAKE TURNS" Ah yes, another tuesday at the Town Pump Bar, a quaint little place where I enjoy a beer or two or at most...three once a week or so. You just never know who you might run into while leaning your elbows on the old wooden railing, sippin a fresh icy mug of Miller Lite.
I had never really paid much attention to the dim interior of the place but as I gazed at my reflection in the counter length mirror behind the bar, I once again became aware of the almost mystical power a drinking establishment sometimes casts upon its patrons. The first thing that captures your attention is the color and texture of the dozens of potions available.
Magical shades of greens, browns and purples reflect in the soft light of an invisible lamp above the bottles; Jamiesons, Black Velvet, Kesslers, Jack Daniels,and Bacardi containers offer a nearly overpowering welcome. Personally, I am captivated by the bronzed statue of a beautiful young girl kicking up her petticoats while dancing one-legged on a barrel of Blatz beer.
As I gaze to the right of the dancing queen, several other sights pique my interest: The hand stitched sign that informs customers, "REIDS TOWN PUMP SALOON, ESTABLISHED 1969"; An eye level box of small wrapped packages advertising, "NU BREATH. DON'T LEAVE HERE WITHOUT THEM! PASS THE BREATH TEST!"; And of course, the familiar sight of a gigantic head mount taking up the entire rear corner of the bar. The thirteen point elk looks forlornly at me from his stationary position next to the popcorn machine.
It is at this point of my observations that a young man in brown shorts and a grey t-shirt plops himself down on the black vinyl seat next to me. At first I am too busy doodling in my journal to notice him but it isn't long before we strike up a conversation as he takes deep drags from a very annoying cigarette placed in the tin ashtray in front of him. The only bad thing about the Pump is that occasionally it seems like everybody in it smokes at the same time. Your clothing reeks of the smell after you leave.
The young man's name is "David". David is out of work, has a fourteen month old child with "the true love of his life", but also maintains a relationship with a girlfriend. Somehow, he must tell the girlfriend that he wishes to "get back with" the aforementioned true love (there is no mention of marriage to either woman); he also has two very purple, black, blue and bloody eyes. After listening to a long list of his life and problems, I ask; "So what happened to the other guy?"
It takes David a minute to figure out that I am talking about his eyes.
"Oh, yeah...now I getcha. The other guy looked pretty good" he says, laughing just a little, "I was in a cage fight up in Traverse city a couple of weeks ago. I looked a lot worse back then!"
David proceeds to tell me all about the fight; how he actually got a leg-lock on the guy but ended up on his back with his opponent slamming his fist into Dave's face as he lay helpless against the floor of the ring. He doesn't remember a lot after that which is probably a good thing. I ask him if he will fight again, expecting that the beating he suffered might make him a wee bit anxious in the future;
"Sure, man. I think I'll actually fight two or three more times because I enjoy it. I actually won my first fight!" he proudly proclaims.
As my hour in the Pump draws to a close I find out a lot more about David. My wife says I ask too many questions sometimes but people's lives fascinate me...especially young folks like David. He collects beer cans to get bar money and rode his bicycle to get to the bar. I rode my bike to the Pump too but it wasn't because I lost my drivers license or I couldn't afford a car. David went to a military school as a last resort to get his GED and as it turns out, his dad is exactly the same age as me. David is not a bad guy, it's just that I have a hard time mustering up sympathy for a twenty-six year old, unemployed father (just lost his job as a bus boy). Still... I truly feel sorry for him.
Maybe its because I am a good listener or perhaps because I remind him of his dad, David surprises me on my way out;
"Hey man...do you think I could get your phone number?" he asks hesitantly, "I'd just like to talk to you sometime, man". He looks away as I answer him while trying to gaze directly into his swollen blue eyes;
"Dave", I reply, "I don't give out my phone number to anyone I just met but I will see you around town or I am often in here on tuesdays if you ever want to talk. It's nothing personal, I hope you know that"
David looks sadly at the well worn red and white formica top of the bar,
"It's ok. man...I just thought you were one of those "mentor" guys thats all". As I pat him on the shoulder and tell him I will catch him around sometime, his next words stun me; "I love you, man" he mumbles.
"Me too", I say softly as I head for the back exit.
In my soul I know that what David needs is to make a commitment to doing something to better his life and that has to begin with him. Giving up those $7:00 a pack cigarettes he was smoking would be a great start but I didn't tell him that. Maybe the next time I buy him a beer at the Pump I'll venture into the land of advice, something he has probably gotten a lot of but in a much sterner tone of voice from his dad and others.
Pedalling my bicycle into twenty mile an hour gusts of wind, I make my way home as the breeze washes the smell of stale smoke from my clothing. I am left to ponder who I will strike up a conversation with on my next trip to the Town Pump and hoping that David will eventually make something of himself. Sometimes the best thing a person can do...is listen.
I had never really paid much attention to the dim interior of the place but as I gazed at my reflection in the counter length mirror behind the bar, I once again became aware of the almost mystical power a drinking establishment sometimes casts upon its patrons. The first thing that captures your attention is the color and texture of the dozens of potions available.
Magical shades of greens, browns and purples reflect in the soft light of an invisible lamp above the bottles; Jamiesons, Black Velvet, Kesslers, Jack Daniels,and Bacardi containers offer a nearly overpowering welcome. Personally, I am captivated by the bronzed statue of a beautiful young girl kicking up her petticoats while dancing one-legged on a barrel of Blatz beer.
As I gaze to the right of the dancing queen, several other sights pique my interest: The hand stitched sign that informs customers, "REIDS TOWN PUMP SALOON, ESTABLISHED 1969"; An eye level box of small wrapped packages advertising, "NU BREATH. DON'T LEAVE HERE WITHOUT THEM! PASS THE BREATH TEST!"; And of course, the familiar sight of a gigantic head mount taking up the entire rear corner of the bar. The thirteen point elk looks forlornly at me from his stationary position next to the popcorn machine.
It is at this point of my observations that a young man in brown shorts and a grey t-shirt plops himself down on the black vinyl seat next to me. At first I am too busy doodling in my journal to notice him but it isn't long before we strike up a conversation as he takes deep drags from a very annoying cigarette placed in the tin ashtray in front of him. The only bad thing about the Pump is that occasionally it seems like everybody in it smokes at the same time. Your clothing reeks of the smell after you leave.
The young man's name is "David". David is out of work, has a fourteen month old child with "the true love of his life", but also maintains a relationship with a girlfriend. Somehow, he must tell the girlfriend that he wishes to "get back with" the aforementioned true love (there is no mention of marriage to either woman); he also has two very purple, black, blue and bloody eyes. After listening to a long list of his life and problems, I ask; "So what happened to the other guy?"
It takes David a minute to figure out that I am talking about his eyes.
"Oh, yeah...now I getcha. The other guy looked pretty good" he says, laughing just a little, "I was in a cage fight up in Traverse city a couple of weeks ago. I looked a lot worse back then!"
David proceeds to tell me all about the fight; how he actually got a leg-lock on the guy but ended up on his back with his opponent slamming his fist into Dave's face as he lay helpless against the floor of the ring. He doesn't remember a lot after that which is probably a good thing. I ask him if he will fight again, expecting that the beating he suffered might make him a wee bit anxious in the future;
"Sure, man. I think I'll actually fight two or three more times because I enjoy it. I actually won my first fight!" he proudly proclaims.
As my hour in the Pump draws to a close I find out a lot more about David. My wife says I ask too many questions sometimes but people's lives fascinate me...especially young folks like David. He collects beer cans to get bar money and rode his bicycle to get to the bar. I rode my bike to the Pump too but it wasn't because I lost my drivers license or I couldn't afford a car. David went to a military school as a last resort to get his GED and as it turns out, his dad is exactly the same age as me. David is not a bad guy, it's just that I have a hard time mustering up sympathy for a twenty-six year old, unemployed father (just lost his job as a bus boy). Still... I truly feel sorry for him.
Maybe its because I am a good listener or perhaps because I remind him of his dad, David surprises me on my way out;
"Hey man...do you think I could get your phone number?" he asks hesitantly, "I'd just like to talk to you sometime, man". He looks away as I answer him while trying to gaze directly into his swollen blue eyes;
"Dave", I reply, "I don't give out my phone number to anyone I just met but I will see you around town or I am often in here on tuesdays if you ever want to talk. It's nothing personal, I hope you know that"
David looks sadly at the well worn red and white formica top of the bar,
"It's ok. man...I just thought you were one of those "mentor" guys thats all". As I pat him on the shoulder and tell him I will catch him around sometime, his next words stun me; "I love you, man" he mumbles.
"Me too", I say softly as I head for the back exit.
In my soul I know that what David needs is to make a commitment to doing something to better his life and that has to begin with him. Giving up those $7:00 a pack cigarettes he was smoking would be a great start but I didn't tell him that. Maybe the next time I buy him a beer at the Pump I'll venture into the land of advice, something he has probably gotten a lot of but in a much sterner tone of voice from his dad and others.
Pedalling my bicycle into twenty mile an hour gusts of wind, I make my way home as the breeze washes the smell of stale smoke from my clothing. I am left to ponder who I will strike up a conversation with on my next trip to the Town Pump and hoping that David will eventually make something of himself. Sometimes the best thing a person can do...is listen.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
I WILL ALWAYS BE THERE FOR YOU
Out of the clear blue sky, one of your best buddies keels over from a sudden heart attack and dies eventually after spending a week in a coma. Another tragically loses a child. A couple you thought you knew oh so well decide to get a divorce after many years of what seemed to be an extremely happy marriage. What does a true friend do or say to try and offer comfort?
One of the things I vividly remember about losing my dad occured as I stood next to his casket, looking back at a small group of mourners filing into the funeral home viewing area. Most of the people moving slowly down the line towards my family to offer their sympathies were relatives that I hadn't seen for quite some time. In the very back of the room stood a small group of people who I was really surprised to find. Ten or twelve of my co-workers stood quietly.
It was probably a forty minute drive for most of them to the small town I grew up in and none of my work pals had ever met my dad to my knowlege. To this day, what impressed me the most was the simple fact that they were there for me in this time of need.
It also felt wonderfully good to tell them stories about my dad and my home-town: How we used to go fishing in Canada when I was a young boy; what a great athlete and dancer he had been; what it was like to grow up in a city by a river; what it was that I felt dad had died from. As I look back now, I am so thankful they gave me a reason to talk about my family and my life. It isn't good to hold things in.
The main thing I felt truly grateful for was the simple fact that people came. It's so easy to moan, "I can't go...what would I talk about?", or "What would I say?". You don't have to say anything, just be there and listen.
To all those of you who are going through rough times now, I say to you...I will always be there for you. If I can't be there in person, I will be there in spirit-either in my nightly prayers or while jogging down a country road. And if you ever feel a need to talk...my ears, or this computer will always, always be open.
One of the things I vividly remember about losing my dad occured as I stood next to his casket, looking back at a small group of mourners filing into the funeral home viewing area. Most of the people moving slowly down the line towards my family to offer their sympathies were relatives that I hadn't seen for quite some time. In the very back of the room stood a small group of people who I was really surprised to find. Ten or twelve of my co-workers stood quietly.
It was probably a forty minute drive for most of them to the small town I grew up in and none of my work pals had ever met my dad to my knowlege. To this day, what impressed me the most was the simple fact that they were there for me in this time of need.
It also felt wonderfully good to tell them stories about my dad and my home-town: How we used to go fishing in Canada when I was a young boy; what a great athlete and dancer he had been; what it was like to grow up in a city by a river; what it was that I felt dad had died from. As I look back now, I am so thankful they gave me a reason to talk about my family and my life. It isn't good to hold things in.
The main thing I felt truly grateful for was the simple fact that people came. It's so easy to moan, "I can't go...what would I talk about?", or "What would I say?". You don't have to say anything, just be there and listen.
To all those of you who are going through rough times now, I say to you...I will always be there for you. If I can't be there in person, I will be there in spirit-either in my nightly prayers or while jogging down a country road. And if you ever feel a need to talk...my ears, or this computer will always, always be open.
Friday, March 26, 2010
REAL AMERICAN IDOLS
The girl moved slowly to the front of the crowded auditorium, a microphone clutched in her right hand as the opening notes of the Stevie Nicks' song "Landslide" poured out of a speaker system somewhere in the room. She was dressed in a white t-shirt, black slacks and beneath a long mop-head of dark hair, she wore a huge smile on her face. The audience waited for Kerry to sing.
If Simon Cowell had been critiquing the performance he would have said something like;
"That was horrific, Kerry"
Randy Jackson might have commented; "Yo, listen up, Kerry...there were some definite pitch issues but I gotta say, you looked like you were having a real good time up there." Lord knows what Ellen Degeneres would say.
It takes an amazing amount of courage to get up and perform in front of a live audience. The special needs students we watched in this wonderful talent show had all that bravery and more. They gave the audience the best they had and even if Kerry got lost in the lyrics occasionally or the word "Landslide" sometimes came out as "Randside", none of us noticed because of her joy and unbridled enthusiasm. More than one of the spectators had a tear in (his) their eyes after she had finished.
Some of the actors and singers were in wheelchairs; some had to be led in clutching a teacher's hand; one wore a pale blue diaper peeking out from beneath the brown hand-sewn donkey suit he had donned for a barnyard animal skit. Many of the older male performers sported mustaches and facial hair. While their innocence and mannerisms often remain forever young, time cannot stop it's ceaceless march toward adulthood for these "kids', or any of us for that matter.
What we can learn from watching amazing performers like them, are things like loving ourselves for who we are, how to co-operate and above all - how to build friendships. Every student on that stage worked to the best of their ability to accomplish all of those traits and that is exactly why they should be our true American Idols.
If Simon Cowell had been critiquing the performance he would have said something like;
"That was horrific, Kerry"
Randy Jackson might have commented; "Yo, listen up, Kerry...there were some definite pitch issues but I gotta say, you looked like you were having a real good time up there." Lord knows what Ellen Degeneres would say.
It takes an amazing amount of courage to get up and perform in front of a live audience. The special needs students we watched in this wonderful talent show had all that bravery and more. They gave the audience the best they had and even if Kerry got lost in the lyrics occasionally or the word "Landslide" sometimes came out as "Randside", none of us noticed because of her joy and unbridled enthusiasm. More than one of the spectators had a tear in (his) their eyes after she had finished.
Some of the actors and singers were in wheelchairs; some had to be led in clutching a teacher's hand; one wore a pale blue diaper peeking out from beneath the brown hand-sewn donkey suit he had donned for a barnyard animal skit. Many of the older male performers sported mustaches and facial hair. While their innocence and mannerisms often remain forever young, time cannot stop it's ceaceless march toward adulthood for these "kids', or any of us for that matter.
What we can learn from watching amazing performers like them, are things like loving ourselves for who we are, how to co-operate and above all - how to build friendships. Every student on that stage worked to the best of their ability to accomplish all of those traits and that is exactly why they should be our true American Idols.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
MOMMA'S DAY
It won't be long until that favorite holiday for bearers of children arrives; Mother's day. One of the best gifts I've ever heard a mom getting was in the form of a simple letter, telling how much a daughter appreciated all the special things her mother had done for her.
Not only did the letter bring tears of joy to the mother's eyes, the contents also created more than a small lump in this writer's throat and yes, it ended up being a song:
MOMMA'S DAY
There were so many times I wondered
If she'd ever heard a word I said,
As she passed on through her childhood years
To those times in her troubled teens
In my mind she would always be my "little girl"
Tried to keep her sheltered from this often cruel world,
Did she love her Momma after all this time?
When she handed me her letter, I just broke down and cried
Cause she wrote; "Mom I remember playin Scrabble with you,
It's still my favorite game-
You put my hair up, into little brown pig-tails
And called me pretty, sweet names.
If I haven't told you lately, If I've never said it enough...
I love you Momma, I always will,
Thanks for being my friend.'
"And I'll play "I Love My Kid's Day"
With my own little girls.
I'll tell them just like you did Momma,
They're the prettiest daughters in this world.
And we'll listen to soft blues tunes,
On lazy Sunday mornings,
Yes I'll be there to protect them
From the day that they are born,
I'll love them just like you did Momma
From the day that they are born."
I have another friend who wrote his dad a similar letter. Mike told his father how much he admired all the things his father had accomplished in his life as well as how much he loved him. A couple of years after Mike opened his heart up in written form, his dad died from terminal cancer.
Shortly after the funeral in a moment of quiet with his mom, she told him that his father would pull that letter out every week or two and re-read the whole thing. That is how much it meant to him.
On Mike's 60th birthday, I voiced to him the hope that each of his own children would one day write something similar to their dad. A note that would perhaps vindicate the effectiveness of Mike's fatherhood. Every man (and woman) has more than the occasional doubt that they have been a good, loving and helpful enough parent.
Happy upcoming Momma's Day to all of those who are one and remember "kids"; flowers and candy are cool, but nothing says "I love you" like Hallmark.
Not only did the letter bring tears of joy to the mother's eyes, the contents also created more than a small lump in this writer's throat and yes, it ended up being a song:
MOMMA'S DAY
There were so many times I wondered
If she'd ever heard a word I said,
As she passed on through her childhood years
To those times in her troubled teens
In my mind she would always be my "little girl"
Tried to keep her sheltered from this often cruel world,
Did she love her Momma after all this time?
When she handed me her letter, I just broke down and cried
Cause she wrote; "Mom I remember playin Scrabble with you,
It's still my favorite game-
You put my hair up, into little brown pig-tails
And called me pretty, sweet names.
If I haven't told you lately, If I've never said it enough...
I love you Momma, I always will,
Thanks for being my friend.'
"And I'll play "I Love My Kid's Day"
With my own little girls.
I'll tell them just like you did Momma,
They're the prettiest daughters in this world.
And we'll listen to soft blues tunes,
On lazy Sunday mornings,
Yes I'll be there to protect them
From the day that they are born,
I'll love them just like you did Momma
From the day that they are born."
I have another friend who wrote his dad a similar letter. Mike told his father how much he admired all the things his father had accomplished in his life as well as how much he loved him. A couple of years after Mike opened his heart up in written form, his dad died from terminal cancer.
Shortly after the funeral in a moment of quiet with his mom, she told him that his father would pull that letter out every week or two and re-read the whole thing. That is how much it meant to him.
On Mike's 60th birthday, I voiced to him the hope that each of his own children would one day write something similar to their dad. A note that would perhaps vindicate the effectiveness of Mike's fatherhood. Every man (and woman) has more than the occasional doubt that they have been a good, loving and helpful enough parent.
Happy upcoming Momma's Day to all of those who are one and remember "kids"; flowers and candy are cool, but nothing says "I love you" like Hallmark.
Monday, March 22, 2010
ANOTHER ALMOST PERFECT DAY
At first I wasn't sure what the brownish colored objects were as they bobbed slowly in the middle of a stubbled cornfield. Feeding deer? Tiny ostriches? Then I heard a strange, cackling cry echoing across the muddy, furrowed earth and I knew; the sandhill cranes had returned. One of the surest signs of impending spring.
It was a sun filled, wind-still day as I entered the fifth mile of an eventual six mile "wun" (combination of walking and running these days), and the old hips/thigh muscles don't always work as well as they once did. Rounding a corner into the last stetch of deserted country road, I came across another sure sign of winter's end; styrofoam coffee cups, thin plastic shopping bags, and a seemingly inexhaustible amount of trash left behind in the roadside ditches by thoughtless people.
Usually, because I am already tired and sweaty, I will try and find someone's discarded white Walmart sack fluttering from a bush and do my small part in cleaning up the environment. As I stuff my container full on debris I wonder: Were the people drunk? Was it a carload of kids who just don't care? Why don't fast food restaurants serve take-out food in nothing but cardboard containers? At least those would biodegrade eventually.
The rest of this day would be filled with small treasures; a late afternoon cook out and camp fire with my wife, the air filled with the smell of wood smoke and the sound of crows calling out to each other from the tops of nearby pine trees; an evening of insanely exciting sporting events on t.v.. Go State!!!
On my next journey through the countryside, I will undoubtedly observe even more of nature's exciting happenings and this time, I'll already have a trash bag stuffed in my pocket. On an almost perfect day, it's just as likely a jogger will find more empty cigarette packages than he will sandhill cranes.
It was a sun filled, wind-still day as I entered the fifth mile of an eventual six mile "wun" (combination of walking and running these days), and the old hips/thigh muscles don't always work as well as they once did. Rounding a corner into the last stetch of deserted country road, I came across another sure sign of winter's end; styrofoam coffee cups, thin plastic shopping bags, and a seemingly inexhaustible amount of trash left behind in the roadside ditches by thoughtless people.
Usually, because I am already tired and sweaty, I will try and find someone's discarded white Walmart sack fluttering from a bush and do my small part in cleaning up the environment. As I stuff my container full on debris I wonder: Were the people drunk? Was it a carload of kids who just don't care? Why don't fast food restaurants serve take-out food in nothing but cardboard containers? At least those would biodegrade eventually.
The rest of this day would be filled with small treasures; a late afternoon cook out and camp fire with my wife, the air filled with the smell of wood smoke and the sound of crows calling out to each other from the tops of nearby pine trees; an evening of insanely exciting sporting events on t.v.. Go State!!!
On my next journey through the countryside, I will undoubtedly observe even more of nature's exciting happenings and this time, I'll already have a trash bag stuffed in my pocket. On an almost perfect day, it's just as likely a jogger will find more empty cigarette packages than he will sandhill cranes.
Friday, March 19, 2010
BACK TO REALITY
My banana, in it's post breakfast form now occupies my little tummy...almost time to head out onto the country roads adjacent to the house for a good run. No more sugar-sand beaches, seagulls or huge gelatinous jelly fish to occupy my thoughts while jogging. It's all relevant to where you're at though isn't it?
There is something about being in springtime Michigan that makes life seem just as magical as a month by the seashore. Yesterday, as I made my way down a stretch of brown, muddy dirt and crushed gravel the miracles of a season in renewal were sprouting up all around me; rivulets of melted snow soon to be filled with a thundering chorus of spring peepers; the soft green nubs of emerging buds tipping the branches of lilac bushes; the smell of warming hay and mud covering a small pasture where several cows stood lazily, their big, soft eyes monitoring my progress.
Soon the tilling of the garden will begin. Tiny, delicate shoots will blossom into crispy, juicy snap-beans. Towering tomato plants in moveable pots on small wheeled platforms will need to have their overloaded, fruit bearing branches staked up. Even with all of the work involved, every chore will be a labor of love because seasons pass quickly the older one becomes.
And at some point, sometime - probably after the first hard frost or when I am staring at an enormous mound of fall leaves that need to be raked, my thoughts will return to the view from a different place; on a balcony by the ocean.
There is something about being in springtime Michigan that makes life seem just as magical as a month by the seashore. Yesterday, as I made my way down a stretch of brown, muddy dirt and crushed gravel the miracles of a season in renewal were sprouting up all around me; rivulets of melted snow soon to be filled with a thundering chorus of spring peepers; the soft green nubs of emerging buds tipping the branches of lilac bushes; the smell of warming hay and mud covering a small pasture where several cows stood lazily, their big, soft eyes monitoring my progress.
Soon the tilling of the garden will begin. Tiny, delicate shoots will blossom into crispy, juicy snap-beans. Towering tomato plants in moveable pots on small wheeled platforms will need to have their overloaded, fruit bearing branches staked up. Even with all of the work involved, every chore will be a labor of love because seasons pass quickly the older one becomes.
And at some point, sometime - probably after the first hard frost or when I am staring at an enormous mound of fall leaves that need to be raked, my thoughts will return to the view from a different place; on a balcony by the ocean.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
A LAST LOOK FROM THE BALCONY...and other thoughts
3-14-10
An older couple moves grudgingly down the shoreline into a nearly gale-force wind. Dressed in light jackets and tight fitting caps they walk arm in arm until the woman stops, turns her back to the breeze and huddles in the shelter of her husband's backside. After she blows her nose, they continue their journey.
The man who must return to Michigan soon took a long walk himself this morning on the nearly deserted beach. He marvelled at the furious forces of the wind gods as he worked his way past several mounds of trash left by spring breakers. Dozens of red plastic cups, crushed beer cans, empty glass bottles and a well-drained fifth of liquor lay partially submerged in the sand. The sight saddened the man. Had he ever been so environmentally unconscious? He knew the answer to that particular question..at least partially.
It is early afternoon of our last day on the beach and we have just returned from the local urgent-care clinic after a stop at Walgreens. Eileen's cough got a lot worse late yesterday evening. Unbeknownst to me, she even drove herself to get some Nyquil last night while I slept in the other bedroom so we could both rest peacefully. Thank God for good insurance and drugs because she seems a lot better as I am writing this; scurrying around the condo rooms trying to figure out the most efficient means of cramming a month's worth of vacation crap into the very restricted confines of our Saturn Vue.
In the elevator with one of our first mini-loads, I shared space with two cleaning crew members who worked in our condo. There isn't a lot of time to chat in the space of moving five floors down, but it was still an interesting and meaningful conversation:
"I just wanted to tell you what a nice job you guys do on this place. It must be rough having to clean up after all the spring breakers," I said while also mentioning some of the early morning destruction I had noticed when leaving for my run.
The lady worker shrugged her shoulders, flashed a gap-toothed grin and remarked,
"Oh, it ain't so bad. We was all young once weren't we?" Her buddy smiled shyly, bobbing his head in agreement.
"I was young once a long time ago but I just don't remember being that stupid", I replied.
On my way to the car I had a moment to digest my comments as I struggled with the load of golf clubs, a suitcase and some musical paraphenalia; Truth is, this old man raised more than his share of heck on spring break and other vacations to the southland. Getting popped for a "minor in posession" back in 69 was one of my first thoughts. Swimming full blast into the side of a pool after draining three or four 16oz Buds while racing a pal was another instant flashback (I wore glasses then but not while swimming, obviously). Those are memories for another blog, maybe.
Meantime, I reminded myself during that last glorious frolic on the seashell-strewn sand this morning that I too was once young. Then I proved it to a few young bucks who had merged in behind me from some hotel after I had already run about five miles. They're probably still talking about the balding, grey haired dude who left them in his dust during the last of his wonderful runs in Gulf Shores, Alabama.
3-14-10
An older couple moves grudgingly down the shoreline into a nearly gale-force wind. Dressed in light jackets and tight fitting caps they walk arm in arm until the woman stops, turns her back to the breeze and huddles in the shelter of her husband's backside. After she blows her nose, they continue their journey.
The man who must return to Michigan soon took a long walk himself this morning on the nearly deserted beach. He marvelled at the furious forces of the wind gods as he worked his way past several mounds of trash left by spring breakers. Dozens of red plastic cups, crushed beer cans, empty glass bottles and a well-drained fifth of liquor lay partially submerged in the sand. The sight saddened the man. Had he ever been so environmentally unconscious? He knew the answer to that particular question..at least partially.
It is early afternoon of our last day on the beach and we have just returned from the local urgent-care clinic after a stop at Walgreens. Eileen's cough got a lot worse late yesterday evening. Unbeknownst to me, she even drove herself to get some Nyquil last night while I slept in the other bedroom so we could both rest peacefully. Thank God for good insurance and drugs because she seems a lot better as I am writing this; scurrying around the condo rooms trying to figure out the most efficient means of cramming a month's worth of vacation crap into the very restricted confines of our Saturn Vue.
In the elevator with one of our first mini-loads, I shared space with two cleaning crew members who worked in our condo. There isn't a lot of time to chat in the space of moving five floors down, but it was still an interesting and meaningful conversation:
"I just wanted to tell you what a nice job you guys do on this place. It must be rough having to clean up after all the spring breakers," I said while also mentioning some of the early morning destruction I had noticed when leaving for my run.
The lady worker shrugged her shoulders, flashed a gap-toothed grin and remarked,
"Oh, it ain't so bad. We was all young once weren't we?" Her buddy smiled shyly, bobbing his head in agreement.
"I was young once a long time ago but I just don't remember being that stupid", I replied.
On my way to the car I had a moment to digest my comments as I struggled with the load of golf clubs, a suitcase and some musical paraphenalia; Truth is, this old man raised more than his share of heck on spring break and other vacations to the southland. Getting popped for a "minor in posession" back in 69 was one of my first thoughts. Swimming full blast into the side of a pool after draining three or four 16oz Buds while racing a pal was another instant flashback (I wore glasses then but not while swimming, obviously). Those are memories for another blog, maybe.
Meantime, I reminded myself during that last glorious frolic on the seashell-strewn sand this morning that I too was once young. Then I proved it to a few young bucks who had merged in behind me from some hotel after I had already run about five miles. They're probably still talking about the balding, grey haired dude who left them in his dust during the last of his wonderful runs in Gulf Shores, Alabama.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
TIME TO GO HOME...ALMOST
From 3/8/10 to 3/13/10
"Hush! Hush! Hush!",
The ocean advises endlessly as it caresses the beach beneath my balcony. I gaze over the railing's edge at the terra-cotta colored tiles surrounding an empty swimming pool. It is nearly six-o'clock p.m. and everyone inside of our condominium is occupied in one way or another.
Eileen doodles on her Sudoku puzzle as she, Scott and Shannon are mezmerized by some sort documentary about the lives (and death) of sperm whales. Kari fiidgets with the computer; she's been concerned with the possibility of a substantial grant which may or may not be forthcoming to the sustainable living community that she calls "home" out west. On the other hand, I enjoy the simple act of watching them. Who knows when we will ever have another chance to be all in the same place at the same time again?
Flash forward:
Eileen is in bed, nursing a wretched cough that she somehow managed to contract during this festive and fun filled week with the kids. We have just returned back to the condo from dropping Scott and Shannon off at the Pensacola airport, forty miles away. Kari went back to Oregon the day before. Somehow, the simply overwhelming urge to visit Krispy Kreme Donuts got the best of me on the way home and my sugar buzz advized me to go "blogging" instead of curling up in bed again. We left for the airport at 3:45 a.m.
There are many things this father and husband will long remember about being on this beautiful beach:
Death match Scrabble games between Scott, Shannon, Eileen and Kari while Dad provided background music on his trusty Taylor guitar to his surprisingly appreciative audience.
A couple of late-night jam sessions and having the opportunity to sing harmony with Scott, Shannon and Eileen. Kari played guitar while I did my best on mandolin as we warbled our way through tunes like "Country Roads" and "The Port Of New Amsterdam" by David Bowie. My children have increased their father's musical vocabulary exponentially.
Jogging down the beach barefoot with my daughter on her last day here and somehow miraculously finding (finally), a "cat's-eye" seashell; delicately brownish-green and slightly broken, it was still a thing of beauty. Above all, Kari is absolutely, incredibly talented and amazingly gifted as a hoop artist. Seeing her perform on the beach in late afternoon one day took our breath away.
Watching the look of contentment on the faces of Scotty and Shannon via text-photos as they sat on the beach front sipping cold beers, enjoying the sun and soaking up every single minute of a well deserved respite from the drudgery of working back in good old Michigan. You are two of the most kind-hearted and thoughtful "kids" a dad and mom could hope for. Pretty talented jugglers too!
Best memory for last: Without a doubt, strolling down the sand and holding hands with my wife of almost forty years. Her hair has picked up some lovely streaky-blonde highlites and I still feel like a young buck most days as we splash our ankles through the surf and I skim pieces of broken sand dollars across the ocean's surface trying to impress her.
The sugar buzz is wearing off and it has been over an hour since this very slow typist began writing. The wind is blowing hard from the west, sending five-foot swells rolling towards our condo and I know Eileen will probably awaken again sometime soon. Hopefully, if her cough is better we'll have another chance to slip off our sandals, feel the powdery white sand between our toes and reflect back on what a nice month it has been, especially when the "kids" were here.
From 3/8/10 to 3/13/10
"Hush! Hush! Hush!",
The ocean advises endlessly as it caresses the beach beneath my balcony. I gaze over the railing's edge at the terra-cotta colored tiles surrounding an empty swimming pool. It is nearly six-o'clock p.m. and everyone inside of our condominium is occupied in one way or another.
Eileen doodles on her Sudoku puzzle as she, Scott and Shannon are mezmerized by some sort documentary about the lives (and death) of sperm whales. Kari fiidgets with the computer; she's been concerned with the possibility of a substantial grant which may or may not be forthcoming to the sustainable living community that she calls "home" out west. On the other hand, I enjoy the simple act of watching them. Who knows when we will ever have another chance to be all in the same place at the same time again?
Flash forward:
Eileen is in bed, nursing a wretched cough that she somehow managed to contract during this festive and fun filled week with the kids. We have just returned back to the condo from dropping Scott and Shannon off at the Pensacola airport, forty miles away. Kari went back to Oregon the day before. Somehow, the simply overwhelming urge to visit Krispy Kreme Donuts got the best of me on the way home and my sugar buzz advized me to go "blogging" instead of curling up in bed again. We left for the airport at 3:45 a.m.
There are many things this father and husband will long remember about being on this beautiful beach:
Death match Scrabble games between Scott, Shannon, Eileen and Kari while Dad provided background music on his trusty Taylor guitar to his surprisingly appreciative audience.
A couple of late-night jam sessions and having the opportunity to sing harmony with Scott, Shannon and Eileen. Kari played guitar while I did my best on mandolin as we warbled our way through tunes like "Country Roads" and "The Port Of New Amsterdam" by David Bowie. My children have increased their father's musical vocabulary exponentially.
Jogging down the beach barefoot with my daughter on her last day here and somehow miraculously finding (finally), a "cat's-eye" seashell; delicately brownish-green and slightly broken, it was still a thing of beauty. Above all, Kari is absolutely, incredibly talented and amazingly gifted as a hoop artist. Seeing her perform on the beach in late afternoon one day took our breath away.
Watching the look of contentment on the faces of Scotty and Shannon via text-photos as they sat on the beach front sipping cold beers, enjoying the sun and soaking up every single minute of a well deserved respite from the drudgery of working back in good old Michigan. You are two of the most kind-hearted and thoughtful "kids" a dad and mom could hope for. Pretty talented jugglers too!
Best memory for last: Without a doubt, strolling down the sand and holding hands with my wife of almost forty years. Her hair has picked up some lovely streaky-blonde highlites and I still feel like a young buck most days as we splash our ankles through the surf and I skim pieces of broken sand dollars across the ocean's surface trying to impress her.
The sugar buzz is wearing off and it has been over an hour since this very slow typist began writing. The wind is blowing hard from the west, sending five-foot swells rolling towards our condo and I know Eileen will probably awaken again sometime soon. Hopefully, if her cough is better we'll have another chance to slip off our sandals, feel the powdery white sand between our toes and reflect back on what a nice month it has been, especially when the "kids" were here.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
THE KIDS HAVE GONE EXPLORING...
At least I know they will all be back in awhile, no doubt with tales to tell mom and dad about their own adventures in the beach. Our son and his wife will have been married for ten years this coming August and our baby girl will turn thirty-four years old in April. Could someone please explain to me exactly where the time has gone? I tried hard to describe how it feels for a parent to watch their children grow up so fast when I wrote this song for Scott and Shannon's wedding in the summer of 2000;
TIME TO FLY AWAY
Was it so long ago that I read stories to you
In my soft-backed chair?
And was it yesterday, I watched you play "tag"
On a summers eve?
You've grown so, I don't know...
I can't imagine where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
A baby girl, with your big brown eyes,
Your daddy loves you so.
Across the miles, momma calls to you,
"Baby, come back home!"
"Can't now mom, I'm grown now-
And I've found a love,
Forever of my own".
Spread your wings, it's time to fly away,
We bless your lives on this-
Your wedding day.
In our hearts you're always here,
Through the good times and the tears
Two one time "kids",
Now a family of their own!
Mmmm... a rockin chair on the big front porch
A glass of lemonade,
Grandma and I cast our memories back
Into the evening shade -
It's gone so fast, I don't know,
Someday you'll wonder where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
Perhaps as I am writing this, Shannon's mom who lives completely on the other side of this great country, is wondering how her little girl with the big brown eyes is getting along. If I could, I would tell her she is just fine; slowly cruising down the sugar-sand waterfront on this fine spring day, giggling and laughing with my son and daughter - creating wonderful memories for the days when they too will all be "old".
At least I know they will all be back in awhile, no doubt with tales to tell mom and dad about their own adventures in the beach. Our son and his wife will have been married for ten years this coming August and our baby girl will turn thirty-four years old in April. Could someone please explain to me exactly where the time has gone? I tried hard to describe how it feels for a parent to watch their children grow up so fast when I wrote this song for Scott and Shannon's wedding in the summer of 2000;
TIME TO FLY AWAY
Was it so long ago that I read stories to you
In my soft-backed chair?
And was it yesterday, I watched you play "tag"
On a summers eve?
You've grown so, I don't know...
I can't imagine where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
A baby girl, with your big brown eyes,
Your daddy loves you so.
Across the miles, momma calls to you,
"Baby, come back home!"
"Can't now mom, I'm grown now-
And I've found a love,
Forever of my own".
Spread your wings, it's time to fly away,
We bless your lives on this-
Your wedding day.
In our hearts you're always here,
Through the good times and the tears
Two one time "kids",
Now a family of their own!
Mmmm... a rockin chair on the big front porch
A glass of lemonade,
Grandma and I cast our memories back
Into the evening shade -
It's gone so fast, I don't know,
Someday you'll wonder where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
Perhaps as I am writing this, Shannon's mom who lives completely on the other side of this great country, is wondering how her little girl with the big brown eyes is getting along. If I could, I would tell her she is just fine; slowly cruising down the sugar-sand waterfront on this fine spring day, giggling and laughing with my son and daughter - creating wonderful memories for the days when they too will all be "old".
Thursday, March 4, 2010
THE KIDS ARE COMING! THE KIDS ARE COMING!
While my wife and I are excited beyond measure that my daughter, son and daughter-in law are coming for a visit on the beach, we are also sad because we both realize our time on the balcony is coming to a close. It is the beginning and the end of what has been a truly wonderful month away from the snows of northern Michigan.
That having been said, there is nothing that can replace time spent with your children, no matter how old they (or you) are these days. Here are some thoughts in song form that I have written over the years about what each of them means to me, beginning with the moment I realized my daughter was leaving home for good.
KARI'S SONG
Up the stairway, to her room
I walk softly,
In the fading afternoon-
And as I gaze upon the walls
A tiny tear drop falls,
Because I know my little girl
Will soon be gone.
The friends she loves,
Her high school letters-
Words she's written
Dancing pictures
All blur into my eyes
I guess all good daddys' cry
When its' time for grown up sweethearts
To say goodbye...
And I know her mom and I
Can accept the loss
As time goes by,
But a parent's empty hearts'
So hard to fill.
And all the memories in this world
Can't replace my college-bound girl,
Oh you know we love you still-
Goodbye Kari.
Crowded closets, rock star posters
Plays shes' been in,
Draw me closer...
To this comfort that I feel
And I know that I must steal away
'Cause soon she might come home
And find me here,
And I know that she'd ask "Why?"
Not understand why daddys' cry
Until shes' had a sweet soft baby
Of her own,
And all the memories in this world
Can't replace my once little girl,
Oh you know we love ya still...
Goodbye Kari.
We used to let her do anything she wanted to her small bedroom and in my minds eye I can still visualize the poetry, pictures and artifacts adorning the walls. Kari has become an amazing, creative and beautiful woman these days and yes, I'll miss her all over again after our last glorious week together (for this year), on this magnificent beach.
Two days after Kari gets here, our son and daughter arrive for the final, festive piece of this vacation extravaganza. My "little" boy and his wife's song will be the next entry in this blog, probably after they have already returned to their own home in the northland. It is past time to get my butt out of this chair and soak up each remaining moment in the sun and these days spent together will undoubtedly be the best of our entire trip. But you'll find out all about that...later!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
BILLY GETS HIS GROOVE BACK...SORT OF-
It is almost nine o,clock p.m. and the surf outside our bedroom window looks like a backdrop for "Deadliest Catch". Inky, white-frothed waves are hammering the beach as a howling wind whistles through a tiny crack in the doorwall next to my bed. Much earlier today, in better weather conditions - I hit a couple buckets of balls at the local driving range. The key word in that last sentence is "hit".
Some balls were hit, some were shanked, a few popped skyward and many blazed a scorching path across the burned out winter grass that covered the ground in front of me. Those were just the balls in my first bucket.
Much like the weather, my golf game seems to be in a state of permanent flux, even with new clubs, a shiny just-purchased golf cart (pull type), and a pair of barely broken in, snazzy sandals. I think this flux must have a lot to do with another recent golfing equipment addition: A subscription to "Golf Digest".
Here is a sampling of thoughts going through my noggin as I draw back my enormous 460 cc, 10.5 loft driver with it's unique grooves designed to facilitate proper swing path: Left arm straight; right upper arm close to the body; rotate right hip, bringing club parallel to shoulders; do not move head; follow through - hands slightly ahead of shaft and finally...duck - hook tiny white sphere a hundred and fifty yards left. DAMN YOU, GOLF DIGEST!!!
Fortunately, by my second bucket of balls many of the tips I had mentally ingested started to work a bit. Keeping my hands slightly ahead of the shaft while chipping and pitching, then following through really seemed to work. My drives are beginning to go further also - when I do connect. I think this all boils down to another term I may have read in some other magazine; It is called "practicing". Maybe I will give that a shot.
Meanwhile the latest copy of Golf Digest will be left on a table in our condo lobby, where tenants often leave gifts of reading material for other unsuspecting souls to peruse. A lovely present that another golf junkie can use to fill his own noggin with useful tips while awaiting a break in this raging weather.
I'll know who took it when I see them at the range, muttering and cursing softly under their breath while trying out all of their own recently acquired swing thoughts.
It is almost nine o,clock p.m. and the surf outside our bedroom window looks like a backdrop for "Deadliest Catch". Inky, white-frothed waves are hammering the beach as a howling wind whistles through a tiny crack in the doorwall next to my bed. Much earlier today, in better weather conditions - I hit a couple buckets of balls at the local driving range. The key word in that last sentence is "hit".
Some balls were hit, some were shanked, a few popped skyward and many blazed a scorching path across the burned out winter grass that covered the ground in front of me. Those were just the balls in my first bucket.
Much like the weather, my golf game seems to be in a state of permanent flux, even with new clubs, a shiny just-purchased golf cart (pull type), and a pair of barely broken in, snazzy sandals. I think this flux must have a lot to do with another recent golfing equipment addition: A subscription to "Golf Digest".
Here is a sampling of thoughts going through my noggin as I draw back my enormous 460 cc, 10.5 loft driver with it's unique grooves designed to facilitate proper swing path: Left arm straight; right upper arm close to the body; rotate right hip, bringing club parallel to shoulders; do not move head; follow through - hands slightly ahead of shaft and finally...duck - hook tiny white sphere a hundred and fifty yards left. DAMN YOU, GOLF DIGEST!!!
Fortunately, by my second bucket of balls many of the tips I had mentally ingested started to work a bit. Keeping my hands slightly ahead of the shaft while chipping and pitching, then following through really seemed to work. My drives are beginning to go further also - when I do connect. I think this all boils down to another term I may have read in some other magazine; It is called "practicing". Maybe I will give that a shot.
Meanwhile the latest copy of Golf Digest will be left on a table in our condo lobby, where tenants often leave gifts of reading material for other unsuspecting souls to peruse. A lovely present that another golf junkie can use to fill his own noggin with useful tips while awaiting a break in this raging weather.
I'll know who took it when I see them at the range, muttering and cursing softly under their breath while trying out all of their own recently acquired swing thoughts.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Menopausal Momma - The Song
This entry is dedicated to "Oody Booty", fellow writer and author of "The Change" - a fine rap tune dedicated to the precursor of this songs title: Hint - Oodie's subject matter rhymes with "frustration" but starts with the letter "M". You can figure it out, especially if you are a woman.
Beneath the soft fluffy covers
I cuddle and dream
of soft sandy beaches and beautiful things.
Blankets pulled close to
My gray whiskered chin.
But all that stuff stops, after she climbs in.
Round 2 or 3 am, I notice it's cold
The Sheets are all wrapped round
My knobby old toes.
There's a bruise on my thighbone
Where last I got kicked.
While next to me she moans, "Its Hot Flashes, Again!"
Chorus
Yeah, she's my menopausal Momma
Erupting in the night
An estrogen spoutin' fountain
Of thrashing heat and light.
But she's the sweetest little thing
I've ever seen,.
So I just pull the covers up,
And go back to my dream.
As the morning sun arises
She dreams her happy dreams,
I'm still in a coma half asleep
And looking at her laying there
You'd never ever know-
Lies a raging, menopausal volcano...
Repeat Chorus - The End
This morning, a tiny little girl waddles down the beach furiously waving a long handled net with a red scoop on it's end. Her grandparents wobble along after her laughing with delight as their grandaughter flings netfulls of sand joyously skyward, as this - my personal balcony playhouse continues to unfold.
My beautiful wife (the object of the above written tune) is curled up on the sofa finishing a book she began reading yesterday. While the volcano is thus occupied, I think I will head out to my beloved beach for a run on this early Sunday morning.
Maybe I'll even pass the same small girl and dream of the days when my own children were young, holding daddy's hand on a beach and gleefully flinging netfulls of sand toward the skies above. As always, I will give thanks to all those who have gone before me for another day of life, love and menopausal bliss.
Beneath the soft fluffy covers
I cuddle and dream
of soft sandy beaches and beautiful things.
Blankets pulled close to
My gray whiskered chin.
But all that stuff stops, after she climbs in.
Round 2 or 3 am, I notice it's cold
The Sheets are all wrapped round
My knobby old toes.
There's a bruise on my thighbone
Where last I got kicked.
While next to me she moans, "Its Hot Flashes, Again!"
Chorus
Yeah, she's my menopausal Momma
Erupting in the night
An estrogen spoutin' fountain
Of thrashing heat and light.
But she's the sweetest little thing
I've ever seen,.
So I just pull the covers up,
And go back to my dream.
As the morning sun arises
She dreams her happy dreams,
I'm still in a coma half asleep
And looking at her laying there
You'd never ever know-
Lies a raging, menopausal volcano...
Repeat Chorus - The End
This morning, a tiny little girl waddles down the beach furiously waving a long handled net with a red scoop on it's end. Her grandparents wobble along after her laughing with delight as their grandaughter flings netfulls of sand joyously skyward, as this - my personal balcony playhouse continues to unfold.
My beautiful wife (the object of the above written tune) is curled up on the sofa finishing a book she began reading yesterday. While the volcano is thus occupied, I think I will head out to my beloved beach for a run on this early Sunday morning.
Maybe I'll even pass the same small girl and dream of the days when my own children were young, holding daddy's hand on a beach and gleefully flinging netfulls of sand toward the skies above. As always, I will give thanks to all those who have gone before me for another day of life, love and menopausal bliss.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Waves on a beach...continued
Thanks to my beautiful wife, without whom this blog would not exist and also to faithful readers and others...without their encouragement, there would be no reason to write it.
The tiny blonde haired lady approached ever so slowly, carefully scrutinizing the slope of a dune on which I sat, soaking up the late afternoon sunshine.
"I don't know what you're looking for" I joked, "But I'm not getting up. Its too hard!" She laughed lightly and said I was perfectly fine where I was. Her name was "Diane", she had twenty-two grandchildren and as it turned out, was searching for treasures in the sand - far away from where most of us elderly folks explored the shoreline. I asked if I could see some of her treasure.
Digging into a little white fanny pack with her knobby fingers, she extracted three of the most exquisitely formed shells I had ever seen. Two cone shaped bluish ones that looked like versions of the Olympic torch and one rounded caramel colored shell with a dark black cat's eye in its center. They were all incredibly small and beautiful.
It wasn't until the next day that I was struck by the thought of how a chance meeting with a lady looking for seashells in unusual spots can serve as a metaphor for things we should be looking for in life. Most of us cruise down the sand sweeping its surface for miles and miles trying to discern many types of unique things upon its surface, always looking at the big picture - awaiting life's next big moment. How often do we take time to look for and appreciate the the little treasures that God gives us on a daily basis?
Eventually, Diane left me and continued her methodical search of the dunescape behind me as I sat alone with my thoughts. I vowed that I would take daily enjoyment in every moment that I have left on this incredibly wonderful planet no matter how small it is. Every day in the paper you can read about others who aren't as fortunate as most of us have been so lets all keep our eyes peeled for tiny treasures...even if you have to go around someone sitting on them.
The tiny blonde haired lady approached ever so slowly, carefully scrutinizing the slope of a dune on which I sat, soaking up the late afternoon sunshine.
"I don't know what you're looking for" I joked, "But I'm not getting up. Its too hard!" She laughed lightly and said I was perfectly fine where I was. Her name was "Diane", she had twenty-two grandchildren and as it turned out, was searching for treasures in the sand - far away from where most of us elderly folks explored the shoreline. I asked if I could see some of her treasure.
Digging into a little white fanny pack with her knobby fingers, she extracted three of the most exquisitely formed shells I had ever seen. Two cone shaped bluish ones that looked like versions of the Olympic torch and one rounded caramel colored shell with a dark black cat's eye in its center. They were all incredibly small and beautiful.
It wasn't until the next day that I was struck by the thought of how a chance meeting with a lady looking for seashells in unusual spots can serve as a metaphor for things we should be looking for in life. Most of us cruise down the sand sweeping its surface for miles and miles trying to discern many types of unique things upon its surface, always looking at the big picture - awaiting life's next big moment. How often do we take time to look for and appreciate the the little treasures that God gives us on a daily basis?
Eventually, Diane left me and continued her methodical search of the dunescape behind me as I sat alone with my thoughts. I vowed that I would take daily enjoyment in every moment that I have left on this incredibly wonderful planet no matter how small it is. Every day in the paper you can read about others who aren't as fortunate as most of us have been so lets all keep our eyes peeled for tiny treasures...even if you have to go around someone sitting on them.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
WAVES ON A BEACH
Haven't you ever wondered if things you've done in your life had meaning to anyone but you? Isn't it of some importance to be remembered for something special or interesting that has occured while you have existed in this world?
All I hope to accomplish in this blog is to share creative thoughts and especially, memories with others who share this same desire. I'm sure that all of us also hold the secret desire that we could be given the gift of fifteen minutes of fame. Wouldn't that be something!
Like waves upon a beach, there are limitless forms to our creativity and backgrounds. I hope you enjoy the shape my "waves" have taken. I look forward to surfing yours.
2-16-10
After a very long car ride and several adventures along the way, we did make it to Gulf Shores, Alabama, safely. Our condo is just about everything we could have hoped for. It's kind of like looking out your window and thinking you're on a beautiful cruise ship. Shoveling snow is just a vague unpleasant memory and the long trip was totally worth it.
Gotta go...coffee to drink on a sun-drenched balcony and beautiful beaches to explore.
2-18-10
Eileen has gone to the computer store seeking a fix to our wireless computer Internet connection. This is the reason we couldn't send e-mails. As I write this, I am out on our condo balcony gazing at the Gulf and thinking about the different textures and hues the ocean has. Every day brings a new look - something I haven't seen before.
Yesterday morning the water was as flat and blue as the surface of a gigantic felt covered pool table. Today, gazing over the top of our aqua colored railing, it looks rippled, full of millions of tiny wrinkles broken only by longish patches where the light breeze hasn't distrubed its texture. Who knows what palettes tomorrow will uncover.
It's time to go. I promised my beloved wife I would get my run in so we can go exploring when she returns. There is a "social gathering" in our condo lobby at 4 p.m. that she wishes attend, provided we get back in time from a nice long stroll on the sugar sand beach.
The only thing that could be better about this place is if all my friends and family were here.
2-20-10
An old woman clad in a blue parka shuffles slowly by the ocean's edge, bending over every few feet, squinting and looking for seashells. Her husband ambles along beside her.
On our balcony I am drinking a small cup of hot coffee in the early morning and wondering where in the hell the years have gone. It seems almost laughable to me, the changes that have overcome our once youthful bodies - the old man, the old woman and the old me.
Gazing over the railing watching the old man in his red and white leather jacket teeter clumsily backwards trying to escape a tiny wave rolling upon the shore, the changes become immediately apparent. Nineteen sixty-nine was a lifetime ago.
Where once Frisbees were flung with reckless abandon by scantily clad college students, functional weather gear and old folks with hip replacements reign. When I consider the alternative however, it is truly good to have a few aches and pains yet still be relatively ambulatory as the "golden years" continue to flow past. In fact, I feel somewhat like a spring chicken down here.
I can still go for a five-miler on the beach in the soft sugar sand; Eileen and I even played "Pong" ( a game involving paddles and a little rubber ball) on the beach yesterday. When we met some of the other folks in our condo complex at a recent open-house, I referred to us as "retiree virgins". That term drew a few laughs.
Old man and old lady, shuffling for seashells down by the seashore - I'm not laughing at you. I am hoping that by the grace of God I can stay in this world as long as you have, even if it means a bit more slowly.
Thats' it for today - gotta run...literally.
2-22-10
Eileen broke the news to me as I sat on the balcony, again sipping my morning coffee;
"Bill, Sandi Martin passed away".
The ocean this morning is the color af slate and none of the early risers walking on the beach would notice the contrasting colors of gray upon gray. There is not much difference between the shade of the water's surface and where it meets the sky. Sandi old friend, my heart goes out to you and your family.
She hired into the post office shortly after I did, in early 1981 if memory serves me correctly. Sandi was large, smoked like a chimney, worked like a dog and was unabashedly - proudly Polish. Most of all, her family was everything to her.
I watch the retirees below me as they shuffle along the sand, beach chairs slung over bony shoulders, heading for strategic spots on the shoreline. Do all of us realize how truly lucky we are to still exist on this wonderful planet? There is so much we simply take for granted.
At least Sandi was able to get off on a medical retirement a couple of years before I left the post office. She got to enjoy her two grandsons, "spoiling them rotten" as she used to boast. I imagine the boys, her brother and son will have an immensely large hole in their hearts for many, many years to come.
Time to go eat some shredded wheat, take my cholesterol medicine, check on e-mails and above all...be grateful for yet another day on this glorious, beautiful balcony. Wish all of you could be here, Sandi especially.
Haven't you ever wondered if things you've done in your life had meaning to anyone but you? Isn't it of some importance to be remembered for something special or interesting that has occured while you have existed in this world?
All I hope to accomplish in this blog is to share creative thoughts and especially, memories with others who share this same desire. I'm sure that all of us also hold the secret desire that we could be given the gift of fifteen minutes of fame. Wouldn't that be something!
Like waves upon a beach, there are limitless forms to our creativity and backgrounds. I hope you enjoy the shape my "waves" have taken. I look forward to surfing yours.
2-16-10
After a very long car ride and several adventures along the way, we did make it to Gulf Shores, Alabama, safely. Our condo is just about everything we could have hoped for. It's kind of like looking out your window and thinking you're on a beautiful cruise ship. Shoveling snow is just a vague unpleasant memory and the long trip was totally worth it.
Gotta go...coffee to drink on a sun-drenched balcony and beautiful beaches to explore.
2-18-10
Eileen has gone to the computer store seeking a fix to our wireless computer Internet connection. This is the reason we couldn't send e-mails. As I write this, I am out on our condo balcony gazing at the Gulf and thinking about the different textures and hues the ocean has. Every day brings a new look - something I haven't seen before.
Yesterday morning the water was as flat and blue as the surface of a gigantic felt covered pool table. Today, gazing over the top of our aqua colored railing, it looks rippled, full of millions of tiny wrinkles broken only by longish patches where the light breeze hasn't distrubed its texture. Who knows what palettes tomorrow will uncover.
It's time to go. I promised my beloved wife I would get my run in so we can go exploring when she returns. There is a "social gathering" in our condo lobby at 4 p.m. that she wishes attend, provided we get back in time from a nice long stroll on the sugar sand beach.
The only thing that could be better about this place is if all my friends and family were here.
2-20-10
An old woman clad in a blue parka shuffles slowly by the ocean's edge, bending over every few feet, squinting and looking for seashells. Her husband ambles along beside her.
On our balcony I am drinking a small cup of hot coffee in the early morning and wondering where in the hell the years have gone. It seems almost laughable to me, the changes that have overcome our once youthful bodies - the old man, the old woman and the old me.
Gazing over the railing watching the old man in his red and white leather jacket teeter clumsily backwards trying to escape a tiny wave rolling upon the shore, the changes become immediately apparent. Nineteen sixty-nine was a lifetime ago.
Where once Frisbees were flung with reckless abandon by scantily clad college students, functional weather gear and old folks with hip replacements reign. When I consider the alternative however, it is truly good to have a few aches and pains yet still be relatively ambulatory as the "golden years" continue to flow past. In fact, I feel somewhat like a spring chicken down here.
I can still go for a five-miler on the beach in the soft sugar sand; Eileen and I even played "Pong" ( a game involving paddles and a little rubber ball) on the beach yesterday. When we met some of the other folks in our condo complex at a recent open-house, I referred to us as "retiree virgins". That term drew a few laughs.
Old man and old lady, shuffling for seashells down by the seashore - I'm not laughing at you. I am hoping that by the grace of God I can stay in this world as long as you have, even if it means a bit more slowly.
Thats' it for today - gotta run...literally.
2-22-10
Eileen broke the news to me as I sat on the balcony, again sipping my morning coffee;
"Bill, Sandi Martin passed away".
The ocean this morning is the color af slate and none of the early risers walking on the beach would notice the contrasting colors of gray upon gray. There is not much difference between the shade of the water's surface and where it meets the sky. Sandi old friend, my heart goes out to you and your family.
She hired into the post office shortly after I did, in early 1981 if memory serves me correctly. Sandi was large, smoked like a chimney, worked like a dog and was unabashedly - proudly Polish. Most of all, her family was everything to her.
I watch the retirees below me as they shuffle along the sand, beach chairs slung over bony shoulders, heading for strategic spots on the shoreline. Do all of us realize how truly lucky we are to still exist on this wonderful planet? There is so much we simply take for granted.
At least Sandi was able to get off on a medical retirement a couple of years before I left the post office. She got to enjoy her two grandsons, "spoiling them rotten" as she used to boast. I imagine the boys, her brother and son will have an immensely large hole in their hearts for many, many years to come.
Time to go eat some shredded wheat, take my cholesterol medicine, check on e-mails and above all...be grateful for yet another day on this glorious, beautiful balcony. Wish all of you could be here, Sandi especially.
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