The Tale of The Who

On a late summer evening when you were four, a car drove past us as we played down by the big rock at the old apartment blaring the song "Baba O'Riley" by The Who.  It had been a while since I'd heard it and I had forgotten the sheer joy of the song.  I showed you Pete Townshend's trademark windmill guitar playing, which made you laugh, and you asked to hear the song.  I only had Who's Next on an LP and since we had no record player at the time, I downloaded it from iTunes for you.

You fell in love with it instantly.

And thus began for you a love affair with The Who--and a revival of one for me.  You listened to their songs thousands of times--on your iPod, on my albums, on my CDs, on the countless DVDs we bought for you.  I was amazed  at how even after thousands of listens (unlike, say, Chumbawumba's "Tubthumping") it just never got old (your mother would beg to differ, though).  And how much I loved listening to them even more.

We watched countless youtube performances and I learned how good they were live (I had seen them twice, both times after the death of Keith Moon--enjoyable, but not as good as the Moon days).  I learned that they had a charitable foundation through which they had funneled millions of dollars.  I learned that Pete Townshend was the first to make his rhythm section more than just a rhythm section--"Baba O'Riley" is the perfect embodiment of this, but to watch and listen to other songs you can see again and again what an integral part of the band John Entwistle and Keith Moon were.  And how much better they made the music.  I watched them age (and you learned what aging was after seeing them on the Super Bowl halftime show when they were in their sixties and at Kilbourn when they were in their thirties).  I learned that Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey may not have always seen eye to eye (or even fist to eye), but as they aged you could see them enjoy each other's talents more so than ever.

You heard things I'd never noticed--the snippet of "Pure and Easy" in "The Song Is Over," Townshend playing the tambourine on "Baba O'Riley," the hand claps in "Who Are You."  I saw how diverse their music really was, heard so many songs for the hundredth time like they were brand new.

But most of all, thanks to your love for them, I learned that The Who are, in my humble opinion, without a doubt the greatest rock band to ever walk the face of this earth.

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The Tale of the Best Meal Ever

At the time of this tale, my father would have been nine, my Uncle Bob around seven, and my Aunt Petie (it's either that or her given name, Pearl Ann) about five.  Unlike you and me, they were not fortunate to have a mother who had their best interest at heart.  As my father often said, his mother was "paid on Friday and broke on Saturday."

As it happened, the three of them found themselves at home alone (not a good sign at that age) with no food and no money.  They had not eaten for a couple of days and were beside themselves with hunger.  My Dad and my Uncle Bob devised a plan.

Now back when your Granddad was a wee lad, people had milk delivered to their homes by milkmen.  Once people had finished their bottles of milk, they placed their empty bottles on their porches for which they would be given a deposit.  As you might have guessed, my Dad and Uncle Bob's plan was to steal milk bottles from the porches of their neighbors, get the money from the store, and buy some food.

They were able to carry enough bottles in their still young arms to the grocery store to purchase a loaf of bread, a can of peas, and ironically enough, a quart of milk.  When they got home they warmed the peas and dunked the bread in the milk.  And they ate like it was a feast.

My Dad was in his late thirties when he told me this tale of his life, and even then, he swore it was still the best meal he had ever eaten.

I believed him.

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The Tale of the Late Night Woodstock Viewing

Many years ago (your sister would have been about five-years-old at the time) I had a night when I was having trouble sleeping.  I got out of bed and went into our family room (it would have been in our home in Belleville, IL) and turned on the TV.  I flipped channels for a while until I came upon the film from the legendary concert at Woodstock in 1969.  It's a bit dated (you'll know what I mean if you ever see it), but the music is really good and I figured it was a good way to relax until I was tired enough to go back to bed.

A short while after I began watching, Peanut awoke and came out and joined me.  I suppose many Dads would have taken her little hand and led her back to bed, but she cuddled up next to me and God knows I worked so many hours that I never got enough time with her (or your brother).

We watched mostly in silence for a few minutes--the movie has alternating scenes of the musicians playing and the antics of the people in attendance.  We watched a scene with people talking about how "groovy" it was, and "far out, man." 

Peanut turned to me and said, "Daddy, these people are weird."

We watched a while longer and came upon another scene with people bathing in a pond.  Again Peanut turned to me and said, "Daddy, these people are really weird."

We watched a bit more--a few songs, some other scenes.  Once more Peanut looked at me, but this time she said, "Daddy, these people are really weird but they sure look like they're having a lot of fun."

I relate this story about your sister because I think it captures her spirit perfectly, even to this day.  She often does find life to be very strange--but realizes that that strangeness also makes it a whole hell of a lot of fun.

And being a journalist is like having a front row seat.

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The Tale of Mom Telling Dad She Was Pregnant

It was a pretty ordinary Monday.  I was closing the store.  On the nights I closed, your mother would call me when she got home from her job at the call center for the mortgage company so we could have a few minutes to share our days.  So when around six p.m. the announcement over the P. A. said I had a call on line one I had no reason to suspect it was anything more than our usual chat.

Mere words cannot describe.

I picked up the phone in the stockroom and heard your mother sobbing--she had recently moved into my apartment and my first thought was that something had happened to Squeakers.  Through her sobs your mother blurted,  "When I got home I took a pregnancy test and I'm pregnant."

Believe it or not, the first thought I had was, "God, if ever you let me say the right thing, please let it be now."  The thought had barely escaped my head when over the P. A. came the announcement:  "Mark to the Service Desk for an override!" Being the only manager on duty for the evening, I told your Mom I had been paged and was heading to the front of the store--just relax, I told her, I'll be right back. 

On my way to the front of the store, it dawned on me that this was a matter that might best be discussed in the office, so I decided to take care of the override and head to the manager's office for some privacy.  After I had taken care of the override, I picked up the phone at the Service Desk to tell your mother I was going to the office, when over the P. A. came the cry, "Mark to Layaway for an override!"

I walked as fast as my two little legs could carry me to Layaway (naturally, on the other side of the store).  I took care of the customer there, and had just picked up the phone to tell your Mom I was heading to the office (alas, also at the other end of the store), when over the P. A. came the announcement, "Mark to Sporting Goods for a license!"

A lesser man would have had a nervous breakdown at this point, but not your Dad.  I merely cursed the day I was ever born and headed to the Sporting Goods counter to sell a nice young man a license to shoot Bambi.  Once finished, I reached for the phone--do I dare?-- and told your mother I was finally going to the office.

Once there, the only thing I remember is making some lame comment about her craving ice cream and pickles which elicited a small laugh from your mother (considering the lameness quotient of the comment, the miracle that was your conception wasn't the only one of that February--your mother didn't bail out on my fanny, too).

You should know, however, that for the next nine months your mother kept the Claussen pickle company in business--two jars a week's worth.

                                                                                  The End