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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!!!

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.