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.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
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.
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