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
Sunday, June 23, 2013
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
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