Though it doesn't happen often (and that can either be a good thing or a bad thing), what goes around can come around.
Shortly after your Granddad got out of the service--he would have been working for CF&I Steel at this time--he went out one Friday evening looking for some companionship (again, a few years before he met your Grandmother). After a short while--and a few drinks--he took up a conversation with a pretty blonde woman. They seemed to be hitting it off....
...until your Granddad discovered she had a very jealous boyfriend. Words were exchanged and the boyfriend, who was about six feet four and weighed about 250 pounds, asked your Granddad if he'd like to step outside. Your Grandfather was easily the most fearless person I have ever met, and all five feet eight, 120 pounds of him said yes, yes he would.
But he was also a shrewd man who understood he had little chance of winning a fight with a man who was quite a bit larger than he, and a few feet before they reached the front door he turned to the jealous boyfriend and said, "Look, man, I don't want to fight you." The young woman's boyfriend turned to your Granddad with a big cocky smile, whereupon your Grandfather--BOOM! was how he described it--pasted his right fist in the middle of that big cocky smile, knocking the man to the floor.
People quickly stepped between them--the guy with the busted lip was led to the front door screaming about how no one sucker punched him and how he was going to take care of your Grandfather once he got outside; your Granddad was led to the bathroom to take care of his profusely bleeding hand (he said it was his own fault because he didn't get his fist squared properly before landing the punch). Once in the restroom, your Granddad placed his hand under running water and tried washing the blood off. Someone came in and said the jealous boyfriend had assembled a bevy of his friends outside and they were waiting for him.
Back in the day, clubs and restaurants had attendants in their restrooms--people who held towels so you could dry them off (today we have the considerably less quaint paper towel dispenser). The elderly gentlemen who walked up to your Gradfather to offer him a towel took one look at him and proclaimed that he was a member of the Sportsmen, a local gang of some ill-repute (I have tried to look them up online many different ways--gangs of the fifties in the San Francisco Bay Area--and have never been able to find anything about them, but it was a long time ago). Granddad figured he was just a crazy old coot, but word spread quickly through the bar.
Your Grandfather said he knew he would have at least stood a chance against a gang with two healthy hands with which to fight, but with his right hand busted up, he had no idea what he was going to do. Eventually he headed for the front door to face his fate and as he did people in the bar were pointing at him and stepping aside. When he pushed the door open, he was greeted by the jealous boyfriend, hands held up in surrender, who told your Grandfather, "Man, I didn't know you were a Sportsman. I don't want any trouble with you." Your Granddad nodded, shook his hand, and made his way to his car.
When he got into his old DeSoto, he was surprised to find that when he pushed in the clutch, his leg was shaking. Your Granddad said it didn't stop until he was almost home.
The End
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The Tale of Mistaken Identity, Volume 1
This is another tale about the fragility of your future existence.
It's about your Granddad.
Your Grandfather served in the U. S. Navy during the Korean War (FYI--if you were to ever ask him what he did in the war, his reply was always the same: "I came home alive."). He served on an aircraft carrier, filling airplanes with gasoline. He was 16 years old when he enlisted and 20 years old when he got out---but he almost didn't make it that long.
A couple of years into his tour, he went on shore leave with a bunch of his buddies. Being a young man cooped up on a ship for extended periods of time, he did what most young men would do when give a little freedom--excuse me, FREEDOM--he went out drinking and looking for pretty women (note, this was several years before he met your Grandmother). By his own account, he fared pretty well: within a short amount of time, he had ingested several beers and had his arm around a very pretty young Japanese woman. An oddity of this tale is that while this was going on your Grandfather was gorging himself on Maraschino cherries (apparently the food on U.S. Navy ships is very lousy).
While in the middle of a dance with the aforementioned pretty woman, two members of the Shore Patrol came into the bar, their faces glaring. Your grandfather leaned into his date and closed his eyes and as he swayed to the music he was ripped from her arms and dragged out of the bar by the two S.P.s.
Apparently, your Grandfather had been fingered as the drunken meathead who had slugged an officer.
Your Grandfather was thrown into the brig, and there he sat imagining at the tender age of 17 or 18 that he was on his way to being dishonorably discharged, jailed, and having a much rougher row to hoe with the stigmas attached to both of those for a crime he didn't commit. Eventually, the stress of the situation got to your Grandfather and he threw up. It looked, your Grandfather recalled, like someone had splashed bright red paint on the floor of his cell--in fact, he said it was the prettiest puke he'd ever seen (I'll take his word on that claim).
Needless to say, the poor bastard who got sent to your Grandfather's cell to clean up the mess was none too pleased, but he gave my father some encouragement. Your grandfather fell asleep.
A short time later, he heard a clanging and an S. P. was telling him he was free to go--your Grandfather had been mistakenly identified, and the actual culprit had been caught.
And though he never said so, I'd be willing to bet your Grandfather learned the meaning of freedom--excuse me, FREEDOM--that day.
The End
It's about your Granddad.
Your Grandfather served in the U. S. Navy during the Korean War (FYI--if you were to ever ask him what he did in the war, his reply was always the same: "I came home alive."). He served on an aircraft carrier, filling airplanes with gasoline. He was 16 years old when he enlisted and 20 years old when he got out---but he almost didn't make it that long.
A couple of years into his tour, he went on shore leave with a bunch of his buddies. Being a young man cooped up on a ship for extended periods of time, he did what most young men would do when give a little freedom--excuse me, FREEDOM--he went out drinking and looking for pretty women (note, this was several years before he met your Grandmother). By his own account, he fared pretty well: within a short amount of time, he had ingested several beers and had his arm around a very pretty young Japanese woman. An oddity of this tale is that while this was going on your Grandfather was gorging himself on Maraschino cherries (apparently the food on U.S. Navy ships is very lousy).
While in the middle of a dance with the aforementioned pretty woman, two members of the Shore Patrol came into the bar, their faces glaring. Your grandfather leaned into his date and closed his eyes and as he swayed to the music he was ripped from her arms and dragged out of the bar by the two S.P.s.
Apparently, your Grandfather had been fingered as the drunken meathead who had slugged an officer.
Your Grandfather was thrown into the brig, and there he sat imagining at the tender age of 17 or 18 that he was on his way to being dishonorably discharged, jailed, and having a much rougher row to hoe with the stigmas attached to both of those for a crime he didn't commit. Eventually, the stress of the situation got to your Grandfather and he threw up. It looked, your Grandfather recalled, like someone had splashed bright red paint on the floor of his cell--in fact, he said it was the prettiest puke he'd ever seen (I'll take his word on that claim).
Needless to say, the poor bastard who got sent to your Grandfather's cell to clean up the mess was none too pleased, but he gave my father some encouragement. Your grandfather fell asleep.
A short time later, he heard a clanging and an S. P. was telling him he was free to go--your Grandfather had been mistakenly identified, and the actual culprit had been caught.
And though he never said so, I'd be willing to bet your Grandfather learned the meaning of freedom--excuse me, FREEDOM--that day.
The End
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
The Tale of the Yellow Butterfly
There's a wonderful short story by Delmore Schwartz called "In Dreams Begin Responsibilities." The short version is of a young man sleeping who sees his parents relationship at two points in time before his birth. The first is when their relationship is blossoming--he knows of their future troubles and wishes to warn them so that they do not remain a couple. In the second, their relationship is on the verge of ending, and he realizes, so is his future existence. He awakens to cold reality.
This tale is not nearly as literate as that of Mr. Schwartz, but it does deal with your existence.
Before your mother and I began dating, I was very much enamored of your mother--she of me, not so much. Still, she seemed to be leaving the door open (see also, "What a Fool Believes" by the Doobie Brothers) a little for me...or was she? A couple of years prior I had been enamored of another woman and figured if I was patient, she'd come around. Alas, not so. I did not want to spend another couple years of my life on a fruitless quest for a love that was never to be requited.
On the fateful day (my birthday, no less), I awoke much earlier than usual and decided to enjoy a lovely late spring morning by reading the newspaper on the porch outside my apartment. I thought about your mother, read my newspaper, thought about your mother (someday you'll understand), etc. Shortly before I had to go to work, I read an article about butterflies and how, because of human encroachment, they were in much shorter supply than the norm. It dawned on me that it was early June, and I had yet to see a butterfly that year. For some odd ass reason, I thought to myself...If I see a butterfly today I will continue wooing your mother. If not, I'd give up and move on.
I left for work shortly thereafter, and promptly forgot about my thought concerning the butterfly.
The Kmart your mother and I worked at was readying for our yearly inventory. I spent the day in the stockroom prepping. It ended up taking much longer than I had planned--I was hoping to get home at a reasonable hour because Nate and Peanut usually called on my birthday and I was looking forward to speaking with them. At seven o'clock that evening I realized I was screwed, and was going to be there much longer than I had hoped. I decided to take a smoke break on the back dock in receiving even though it wasn't allowed after our receiving personnel had gone home for the day. I figured it was my birthday--shouldn't have to walk ten minutes to have a smoke. I grabbed an empty milk crate and sat down on it, lit my cigarette and had just decided to spoil myself and have two smokes when the biggest butterfly--at least four inches from wing tip to wing tip--of the brightest yellow I had ever seen flew right before my eyes. He flew around me for several minutes before floating away into a group of trees behind the store.
Needless to say, I remembered my thought from earlier that day.
There would be many times over the next three months that I would have my doubts as to whether or not to continue pursuing your mother, and every time I did, I would think of that butterfly.
It was not lost on me that, as a young boy, you were fascinated by both caterpillars and butterflies.
The End
This tale is not nearly as literate as that of Mr. Schwartz, but it does deal with your existence.
Before your mother and I began dating, I was very much enamored of your mother--she of me, not so much. Still, she seemed to be leaving the door open (see also, "What a Fool Believes" by the Doobie Brothers) a little for me...or was she? A couple of years prior I had been enamored of another woman and figured if I was patient, she'd come around. Alas, not so. I did not want to spend another couple years of my life on a fruitless quest for a love that was never to be requited.
On the fateful day (my birthday, no less), I awoke much earlier than usual and decided to enjoy a lovely late spring morning by reading the newspaper on the porch outside my apartment. I thought about your mother, read my newspaper, thought about your mother (someday you'll understand), etc. Shortly before I had to go to work, I read an article about butterflies and how, because of human encroachment, they were in much shorter supply than the norm. It dawned on me that it was early June, and I had yet to see a butterfly that year. For some odd ass reason, I thought to myself...If I see a butterfly today I will continue wooing your mother. If not, I'd give up and move on.
I left for work shortly thereafter, and promptly forgot about my thought concerning the butterfly.
The Kmart your mother and I worked at was readying for our yearly inventory. I spent the day in the stockroom prepping. It ended up taking much longer than I had planned--I was hoping to get home at a reasonable hour because Nate and Peanut usually called on my birthday and I was looking forward to speaking with them. At seven o'clock that evening I realized I was screwed, and was going to be there much longer than I had hoped. I decided to take a smoke break on the back dock in receiving even though it wasn't allowed after our receiving personnel had gone home for the day. I figured it was my birthday--shouldn't have to walk ten minutes to have a smoke. I grabbed an empty milk crate and sat down on it, lit my cigarette and had just decided to spoil myself and have two smokes when the biggest butterfly--at least four inches from wing tip to wing tip--of the brightest yellow I had ever seen flew right before my eyes. He flew around me for several minutes before floating away into a group of trees behind the store.
Needless to say, I remembered my thought from earlier that day.
There would be many times over the next three months that I would have my doubts as to whether or not to continue pursuing your mother, and every time I did, I would think of that butterfly.
It was not lost on me that, as a young boy, you were fascinated by both caterpillars and butterflies.
The End
Sunday, July 10, 2011
True Tales for You
Beautiful Boy,
There are people in our family who are (or, in the case of your Granddad,were) good storytellers--your Uncle Curt, your Uncle John, your brother Nate, your cousin Stephanie. I am not one of them. Therefore, this blog--I can write it better than I can tell it.
These Tales are in no particular order--just true stories that may (or may not) someday be of interest to you. Being a little bit older than the usual Dad, I worry that there may not be time to tell you all of them. I also know with your ADHD that sitting still for long periods of time is not always possible. You're young, too. The Who are infinitely more interesting than this--at least for now.
I do not hope you find your inner self reading this blog. I don't know that it's necessary. I do not hope this blog provides explanations. Life provides very few of them. I do, however, hope that after reading it you can see all of those who love you most for what we are: some beautiful but flawed people.
And that life is a roll of the dice.
Love,
Dad
There are people in our family who are (or, in the case of your Granddad,were) good storytellers--your Uncle Curt, your Uncle John, your brother Nate, your cousin Stephanie. I am not one of them. Therefore, this blog--I can write it better than I can tell it.
These Tales are in no particular order--just true stories that may (or may not) someday be of interest to you. Being a little bit older than the usual Dad, I worry that there may not be time to tell you all of them. I also know with your ADHD that sitting still for long periods of time is not always possible. You're young, too. The Who are infinitely more interesting than this--at least for now.
I do not hope you find your inner self reading this blog. I don't know that it's necessary. I do not hope this blog provides explanations. Life provides very few of them. I do, however, hope that after reading it you can see all of those who love you most for what we are: some beautiful but flawed people.
And that life is a roll of the dice.
Love,
Dad
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