Toward the end of second grade, a bunch of kids at school began talking about this game called baseball. It was kind of like kickball, except you played with bats and gloves and a much smaller ball. I wanted to play this game so I asked my Dad if he would buy me the necessary equipment so I could play with the other kids.
Dad was not sure about this at all, Unbeknownst to me at the age of seven almost eight, this equipment cost money and while I know now that my parents would have been considered the working poor, at that age I had no idea that a bat, a glove, and a ball would be a huge expense for my parents. I just knew my Dad said he didn't know, and I left for school feeling very sad, but as I ran out the door holding back my tears my Mom yelled, "We'll try to work it out, Mark!"
That day when I got home--voila!--there in the downstairs was a mitt, a bat, and a big white softball. Mere words cannot explain the joy. A short while later my Dad tossed me my first ball, I turned my mitt the wrong way, and it bounced off the glove and right into my upper lip, which proceeded to swell to about five times its normal size. With my Mom watching at my side, I felt no pain at all.
Baseball would eventually become an essential fabric of our lives. When I played Little League I was an awful hitter and my Dad would take me to the park and throw me pitch after pitch after pitch (to ultimately no avail) while my Mom, my sister, and my younger brother shagged balls. Eventually I would teach your Uncle Curt to play the game, and as we got older the love for the game would be passed to your older brother and big sister, by your Aunt Susie and Uncle John to all of their kids, by Curt to his son, and eventually from me to you.
And I'm sure you know of our lifetime love affair with the San Francisco Giants....
I note this today because, as you are well aware, we go see the fireworks here in Clarkston every year on the Fourth of July, in the same park, and you and I always spend time on one of the baseball diamonds before the show. Last night--because you are ten and being self-conscious has not yet caught up to you (and God how I wish it never would)--you hit your first big league home run, ran the bases, and high-fived your imaginary teammates in the dugout. You struck out the side in the bottom of the ninth inning to clinch another World Series for the Giants. And last but not least, you set a new record for running the bases--17 seconds from home plate to home plate.
You reminded me--as has the rest of the family so many times--of how much I love baseball. And your Dad wants you to know that as you ran the bases, as you fielded grounders, as you threw that final strike to win the World Series, you were beautiful.
The End
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Friday, October 31, 2014
The Tale of Halloween Night, 2014
As we drove to spend Halloween trick or treating tonight with your Mother's Aunt Janet, it was snowing, and you asked your Mom and I if we ever remembered it snowing on Halloween before. I had no idea, though your Mother recalled that it snowed on homecoming night when she was in high school, which would have been in mid to late October.
This post is a reminder for you to tell your kids that, yes, once it did snow on Halloween as you trick or treated, two days after the Giants won their third World Series in five years. A lot of very kind people braved freezing temperatures (and blew up their heating bills) giving you and lots of other kids candy that night.
And that your mother and I walked around with soaking wet feet and frozen hands (even with gloves on), with snowflake streaked glasses and wet hair because you enjoyed the evening so much and we loved you even more.
The End
This post is a reminder for you to tell your kids that, yes, once it did snow on Halloween as you trick or treated, two days after the Giants won their third World Series in five years. A lot of very kind people braved freezing temperatures (and blew up their heating bills) giving you and lots of other kids candy that night.
And that your mother and I walked around with soaking wet feet and frozen hands (even with gloves on), with snowflake streaked glasses and wet hair because you enjoyed the evening so much and we loved you even more.
The End
Sunday, June 23, 2013
The Tale of Your First Dance
When you were little (roughly three years old) you liked to play with the knobs on my stereo. It wasn't much of a problem until you hit the power switch with the volume cranked to ten, at which time you would scream like a Banshee until either your mother or myself turned it down and comforted your scared little body.
One afternoon, after I'd worked and picked you up from daycare, we were waiting for your Mom to get home. I was in the bedroom making the bed, and you, as often was your want, were playing with the buttons on my stereo in the living room. All of a sudden I heard, loudly, the intro to The Hold Steady's "Banging Camp" (which your sister had been so kind to send me as part of a mix CD of the best songs of that year) blaring from our living room. I dropped everything I was doing, raced to get you, but when I turned the corner, there you stood, your little arms stretched as high as you could get them, your little hands clenched into fists, and you screamed, "DANCE DADA!" as loud as your little voice could muster. You then proceeded to shimmy and shake until the song was over.
We listened to it eight more times before your Mom got home.
The End
One afternoon, after I'd worked and picked you up from daycare, we were waiting for your Mom to get home. I was in the bedroom making the bed, and you, as often was your want, were playing with the buttons on my stereo in the living room. All of a sudden I heard, loudly, the intro to The Hold Steady's "Banging Camp" (which your sister had been so kind to send me as part of a mix CD of the best songs of that year) blaring from our living room. I dropped everything I was doing, raced to get you, but when I turned the corner, there you stood, your little arms stretched as high as you could get them, your little hands clenched into fists, and you screamed, "DANCE DADA!" as loud as your little voice could muster. You then proceeded to shimmy and shake until the song was over.
We listened to it eight more times before your Mom got home.
The End
Saturday, May 11, 2013
The Tale of the Lesson in Humility
When I was in college I worked summers in a steel mill (at one time it was called Continental Steel, later became Penn-Dixie Steel, then reverted to the original name before going out of business) to pay for my tuition (Mom and Dad paid for the room and board--much appreciated--as I stayed at home and went to a local campus of Indiana Univesity in Kokomo, IN). It taught me many lessons--and left me with a few permanent bodily scars--but none quite like the lesson in humility I was taught by an illiterate co-worker.
About halfway through my first summer I drove to work one Friday afternoon to pick up my paycheck. Back in the day (would have been the summer of '77), they didn't have direct deposit like we do now. You had to pick up a paper copy of your check and take it to the bank to either cash or desposit it. We went into a somewhat small office where there were several lines--once you got to the front, you would sign for your check and they'd hand it over to you. As you might imagine in an organization that employed a couple thousand people, the lines were long, though it didn't take more than about ten minutes or so to get to the front. As I waited the gentleman in front of me was giving and taking some good natured banter--God only knows what I was thinking about in those days, but I was half paying attention and half daydreaming if memory serves. When I finally reached the front, I noticed that the gentleman before me had placed an "X" on his signature line. It struck me as odd, me being in college and all, that in a nation as far advanced as America, we still had people who could not even write their own name.
I worked in the day pool, where we went from department to department doing usually exceptionally menial jobs (picking up scraps of wire, cleaning toilets, tying wire around metal rods), and as fate would have it, I ended up one week in the Rod Mill doing the extremely thrilling job of sweeping (which was Sisyphean task--once you got to one end of the mill, you could look back and see as big of a mess on the floor as when you started). As I was sweeping I noticed one of the men watching over one of the machines just happened to be the gentleman I noted above who was unable to write his own name. He'd wave or nod as I pushed my broom past him, and seemed as I noticed in the pay office, a decent fellow. After my first few hours of tedium, he approached me and asked if I'd like to take a break and play some checkers with him. I was dying to take a break to do anything to take me away from my boredom, but playing checkers with an illiterate didn't sound much more enticing--how hard could it be to defeat a man at checkers who couldn't even write his own name? I reluctantly agreed.
And found I could not possibly have been more wrong. Turns out the guy was like the Bobby Fischer of checkers. At the end of the first game, I had two of his checkers, and he had all of mine with a board full of his kinged men. The next several games were no better--he was doing quadruple and quintuple jumps and I was wondering just what the hell good a college degree was going to do for a man who was getting schooled in checkers by Lenny from Of Mice and Men. As the break wore on I got slightly better--which he encouragingly pointed out when I had four (a whole four!) of his men at the end of one game. We finally and mercifully went back to work--he wanted to play later in the shift but I begged off because I had to finish sweeping. I ended up somewhere else in the department for the rest of the week, and never did see him again over the next couple of summers.
He still sticks with me, though--as a reminder that playing checkers with him was the first, though certainly not the last, time I would curse God for teaching me humility the hard way.
The End
About halfway through my first summer I drove to work one Friday afternoon to pick up my paycheck. Back in the day (would have been the summer of '77), they didn't have direct deposit like we do now. You had to pick up a paper copy of your check and take it to the bank to either cash or desposit it. We went into a somewhat small office where there were several lines--once you got to the front, you would sign for your check and they'd hand it over to you. As you might imagine in an organization that employed a couple thousand people, the lines were long, though it didn't take more than about ten minutes or so to get to the front. As I waited the gentleman in front of me was giving and taking some good natured banter--God only knows what I was thinking about in those days, but I was half paying attention and half daydreaming if memory serves. When I finally reached the front, I noticed that the gentleman before me had placed an "X" on his signature line. It struck me as odd, me being in college and all, that in a nation as far advanced as America, we still had people who could not even write their own name.
I worked in the day pool, where we went from department to department doing usually exceptionally menial jobs (picking up scraps of wire, cleaning toilets, tying wire around metal rods), and as fate would have it, I ended up one week in the Rod Mill doing the extremely thrilling job of sweeping (which was Sisyphean task--once you got to one end of the mill, you could look back and see as big of a mess on the floor as when you started). As I was sweeping I noticed one of the men watching over one of the machines just happened to be the gentleman I noted above who was unable to write his own name. He'd wave or nod as I pushed my broom past him, and seemed as I noticed in the pay office, a decent fellow. After my first few hours of tedium, he approached me and asked if I'd like to take a break and play some checkers with him. I was dying to take a break to do anything to take me away from my boredom, but playing checkers with an illiterate didn't sound much more enticing--how hard could it be to defeat a man at checkers who couldn't even write his own name? I reluctantly agreed.
And found I could not possibly have been more wrong. Turns out the guy was like the Bobby Fischer of checkers. At the end of the first game, I had two of his checkers, and he had all of mine with a board full of his kinged men. The next several games were no better--he was doing quadruple and quintuple jumps and I was wondering just what the hell good a college degree was going to do for a man who was getting schooled in checkers by Lenny from Of Mice and Men. As the break wore on I got slightly better--which he encouragingly pointed out when I had four (a whole four!) of his men at the end of one game. We finally and mercifully went back to work--he wanted to play later in the shift but I begged off because I had to finish sweeping. I ended up somewhere else in the department for the rest of the week, and never did see him again over the next couple of summers.
He still sticks with me, though--as a reminder that playing checkers with him was the first, though certainly not the last, time I would curse God for teaching me humility the hard way.
The End
Monday, July 16, 2012
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.
The End
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.
The End
Saturday, March 31, 2012
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.
The End
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.
The End
Saturday, February 25, 2012
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.
The End
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.
The End
Friday, January 13, 2012
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
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
Saturday, December 31, 2011
The Tale of Mistaken Identity, Volume 2
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
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
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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