Life goes on, doesn't it? My youngest, turned 18 yesterday. A boisterous, intelligent, stubborn, joyous young woman. With a keen eye and determination that has let her never be stopped when she truly wanted something.
She was our "baby fever" child. That is to say that we had two children already and my ex-wife held her sister's children and we had to have a third for our selves. That was fine with me, I wanted more than two children, although I would have been happy with just the two we had. So, she was brought into the world. Right after she was born, I looked at her mother and said "Now, we're all here."
Through the years, she has been a ray of light. Whether it was taking goofy pictures of the cat and putting filters on them or doing the same with pictures of her sisters. When she was two, I was sitting in the living room with her mother, talking when she stomped out and yelled "What the hell is going on down here!", causing me to fall over laughing and her to start crying.
She doesn't remember a time when her mother and I were not divorced, which is a shame because there were some good times there. When we went to Disney, we got on a plane and she was furious that she had to sit in her car seat. Not because she had to actually sit in her car seat but because she couldn't reach the controls to the little TV on the back of the seat in front of her. She didn't WANT to watch Spongebob, she wanted something else.
She was pretty sick when we got to Disney, she had an ear infection and we had to call a Disney doctor. The doctor came with a nice nurse who talked to her and made her smile. They gave her amoxicillin and then, after the doctor left, we all raced to the Princess Breakfast that we had booked especially for her. She loved it and charmed everyone.
That's one of the defining things about her: She charms everyone she meets. I remember when she was in second grade, on the first day we went to the playground and all the kids were supposed to line up by class. There was no one in the line she was supposed to be in. One of the kids yelled "IT'S GRACIE!" and suddenly, she was surrounded by admirers, like a buttercup in the middle of a sea of grass.
Also in second grade, her teacher contacted me and told me that she wouldn't stop talking. So, I talked to her.
"The teacher says you don't stop talking when she's teaching. Why is that?"
"Well, I know everything she's teaching."
"Yeah but, the other kids don't."
"Oh."
The teacher never had another problem with her talking.
When she was in 6th grade, it came time for her to pick an instrument to play and she was determined to play the tuba. The teacher looked at all four feet of her and said "You're not big enough. You can play baritone, though." A baritone is a small tuba. She reluctantly agreed. When she got to 10th grade, though, she got her tuba. All five feet of her. She was the section leader, too. It was funny watching her boss those much taller boys around. They were afraid of her.
So, she goes off to college in September, to start her life. She's going to study television editing, something she has always excelled at. She's going to do marvelously, I'm sure. After all, nothing she has ever truly wanted has ever been out of her grasp.
Tuesday, July 2, 2019
Monday, May 6, 2019
Dad
My father was a cornerstone of my life. For many years, like most youth, it didn't occur to me. Until the birth of my oldest child. Then, a lot of what he had done started to make sense to me. There were some things that didn't but those were the things that made him, uniquely, him.
My father was an Air Force Combat Medic. A rare thing. When he was in Vietnam, he would go out into the bush with his partner, Charlie, and a handful of South Vietnamese soldiers. They would treat the local villages for things like dysentery and other illnesses. They knew that the North Vietnamese would come into the village for treatment for themselves. They also knew that the North Vietnamese soldiers would always take their medicines by color, not by effect. So, they would hide laxatives among the colors of pills that they knew they would take. He never told me much else about Vietnam, I did glean from him that there was a betrayal and an ambush at one point, but that was as far as I got.
My father would flashback, as many combat veterans did. You stood to the side and touched his foot, and only his foot. He would sit up quickly and be completely awake. I recall one time I forgot this and touched his shoulder. He came out of that chair like he was on fire, grabbed me by my shirt collar, lifted me up and realized who I was. He put me down, shaking and very upset. I never forgot that lesson, I always followed his rule for waking after that.
We came out of our bedroom in 1969, I think it was. He was sitting in his chair drinking Tiger Beer and the floor was covered in balloons that he had blown up. We spent the morning playing with balloons and laughing with our Dad. At birthday parties, he would put an unlit candle in his mouth, make a funny face and spit out 3 candles. He'd let you look in his mouth, grinning at you, then, do it again.
We'd play Monopoly every Friday night with him, He'd always win. I learned years later that that was because he cheated. Which was and is okay. After the Monopoly game, we'd watch the "scary movies". Godzilla, Mothra, Rodin, The Gorgon, The Day The Earth Stood Still, Frankenstein Created Woman. Later, when we got older, we'd play Risk, as well. Which ended when my youngest sister started playing and discovered "Thermonuclear War". Meaning, she'd throw the board.
My father's father died when he was 9. It left a hole in his life that he didn't quite know how to fill. He was given a hard row to hoe, and didn't really know how to be a Dad. Of course, none of us really does until we do the job but, he had it harder because his father died when he was so very young. He grew into the job.
I remember him teaching me how to split wood with an axe and with a maul and with a wedge. Taught me how to use a saw properly.
I startled him more than once, the time I most remember, he was fixing the porch around the outside of the house. He wanted to rotate a column into place, but the roof of the porch was pinching down too much to do it. I had been lifting weights for quite a while at that point and I was fearsome strong, I got on the ladder, put my shoulders under and lifted it just enough for him to rotate it in. He was surprised.
The day he died, I was asleep. It was 2:17 AM on April 27, 2019 and the phone rang. I just barely heard it but phone calls at that time are never good news, are they? I saw it was from Maine so I called it back. My youngest brother said that Mom had come down to get my father to come up to bed and he was non-responsive. He performed CPR but it was too late. My sisters were there, my Mom, my brother. The older of the two sisters said that he had a smile on his face. That she sat there, holding his hand, while they were waiting for the coroner.
What did he die of? I don't know. He had underlying health problems but he was healthier than he had been in months. He hadn't been having problems with his breathing, which was miraculous as it was spring and pollen was everywhere. My best guess is that his heart gave out and that he went peacefully, probably not even aware that he was gone. I like to think that his mother or his father came and got him, or perhaps my mother's mother. He always loved her.
I gathered my children and my partner and we drove up to Maine. It was a long, long trip. It always is, To quote my ex-wife: You drive to Maine and you think you're done, then you drive forever. It is 5-6 hours from the southern tip of Maine to Presque Isle through some of the emptiest scenery you will ever see. North of Bangor, you lose your phone service, you don't get it back until Houlton. Which is at the end of I95, you then drive 40 miles north to Presque Isle.
We went to the memorial the next day. He was so still. I kept expecting him to open his eyes and go "Gotcha!", which would be a douchey thing to do but he would think it was funny. Come to think of it, once I got over it, I would too. Like Father, Like Son, no? But, no, he didn't move. His hands were carefully placed in a neutral kind of position, with the finger tips touching above his chest. My Mom had him dressed in jeans, a t-shirt (without a stain on it) and a denim overshirt. There was no overt make up so he looked...like himself. Just very, very still. I said good bye to him and I cried a little. When we left the funeral home, I went over one more time gripped his shoulder as I always had and said "Okay, bye, Daddy. I love you." and left without looking back again.
There was a gathering with the family. His wife, his children, most of his grand children, most of his great grandchildren, those that we had adopted into our already large family were there, too. Adopted sons and daughters all brought together by a remarkable man. We celebrated and we cried we had fun and we mourned. We left for home the next morning. It was a long drive.
The sad hits me more today. I find myself thinking that I'll give him a call on how to use this angle grinder to take off the top of a metal door then, it hits me: I can't. He's not there any more. I am a problem solver by nature, like he was. I cannot fix this. I wish I could.
I miss you Dad.
My father was an Air Force Combat Medic. A rare thing. When he was in Vietnam, he would go out into the bush with his partner, Charlie, and a handful of South Vietnamese soldiers. They would treat the local villages for things like dysentery and other illnesses. They knew that the North Vietnamese would come into the village for treatment for themselves. They also knew that the North Vietnamese soldiers would always take their medicines by color, not by effect. So, they would hide laxatives among the colors of pills that they knew they would take. He never told me much else about Vietnam, I did glean from him that there was a betrayal and an ambush at one point, but that was as far as I got.
My father would flashback, as many combat veterans did. You stood to the side and touched his foot, and only his foot. He would sit up quickly and be completely awake. I recall one time I forgot this and touched his shoulder. He came out of that chair like he was on fire, grabbed me by my shirt collar, lifted me up and realized who I was. He put me down, shaking and very upset. I never forgot that lesson, I always followed his rule for waking after that.
We came out of our bedroom in 1969, I think it was. He was sitting in his chair drinking Tiger Beer and the floor was covered in balloons that he had blown up. We spent the morning playing with balloons and laughing with our Dad. At birthday parties, he would put an unlit candle in his mouth, make a funny face and spit out 3 candles. He'd let you look in his mouth, grinning at you, then, do it again.
We'd play Monopoly every Friday night with him, He'd always win. I learned years later that that was because he cheated. Which was and is okay. After the Monopoly game, we'd watch the "scary movies". Godzilla, Mothra, Rodin, The Gorgon, The Day The Earth Stood Still, Frankenstein Created Woman. Later, when we got older, we'd play Risk, as well. Which ended when my youngest sister started playing and discovered "Thermonuclear War". Meaning, she'd throw the board.
My father's father died when he was 9. It left a hole in his life that he didn't quite know how to fill. He was given a hard row to hoe, and didn't really know how to be a Dad. Of course, none of us really does until we do the job but, he had it harder because his father died when he was so very young. He grew into the job.
I remember him teaching me how to split wood with an axe and with a maul and with a wedge. Taught me how to use a saw properly.
I startled him more than once, the time I most remember, he was fixing the porch around the outside of the house. He wanted to rotate a column into place, but the roof of the porch was pinching down too much to do it. I had been lifting weights for quite a while at that point and I was fearsome strong, I got on the ladder, put my shoulders under and lifted it just enough for him to rotate it in. He was surprised.
The day he died, I was asleep. It was 2:17 AM on April 27, 2019 and the phone rang. I just barely heard it but phone calls at that time are never good news, are they? I saw it was from Maine so I called it back. My youngest brother said that Mom had come down to get my father to come up to bed and he was non-responsive. He performed CPR but it was too late. My sisters were there, my Mom, my brother. The older of the two sisters said that he had a smile on his face. That she sat there, holding his hand, while they were waiting for the coroner.
What did he die of? I don't know. He had underlying health problems but he was healthier than he had been in months. He hadn't been having problems with his breathing, which was miraculous as it was spring and pollen was everywhere. My best guess is that his heart gave out and that he went peacefully, probably not even aware that he was gone. I like to think that his mother or his father came and got him, or perhaps my mother's mother. He always loved her.
I gathered my children and my partner and we drove up to Maine. It was a long, long trip. It always is, To quote my ex-wife: You drive to Maine and you think you're done, then you drive forever. It is 5-6 hours from the southern tip of Maine to Presque Isle through some of the emptiest scenery you will ever see. North of Bangor, you lose your phone service, you don't get it back until Houlton. Which is at the end of I95, you then drive 40 miles north to Presque Isle.
We went to the memorial the next day. He was so still. I kept expecting him to open his eyes and go "Gotcha!", which would be a douchey thing to do but he would think it was funny. Come to think of it, once I got over it, I would too. Like Father, Like Son, no? But, no, he didn't move. His hands were carefully placed in a neutral kind of position, with the finger tips touching above his chest. My Mom had him dressed in jeans, a t-shirt (without a stain on it) and a denim overshirt. There was no overt make up so he looked...like himself. Just very, very still. I said good bye to him and I cried a little. When we left the funeral home, I went over one more time gripped his shoulder as I always had and said "Okay, bye, Daddy. I love you." and left without looking back again.
There was a gathering with the family. His wife, his children, most of his grand children, most of his great grandchildren, those that we had adopted into our already large family were there, too. Adopted sons and daughters all brought together by a remarkable man. We celebrated and we cried we had fun and we mourned. We left for home the next morning. It was a long drive.
The sad hits me more today. I find myself thinking that I'll give him a call on how to use this angle grinder to take off the top of a metal door then, it hits me: I can't. He's not there any more. I am a problem solver by nature, like he was. I cannot fix this. I wish I could.
I miss you Dad.
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Losing an old friend
I met Josh at a project we were working on in 1998. He was an Orthodox Jew, one of the ones they call "black hats" but he never wore the hat, only his yarmulke and a flat cap. He had a doctorate in Mathematics and was working on system engineering for the project. (It eventually became Verizon Long Distance).
As all projects do, this one came to an end in 2004. Josh and I kept in touch, always meeting for coffee somewhere every couple of months and discussing current politics and advances in technology. He'd call occasionally and ask for technical advice on something he was having problems with. I would always help, even when he called on Christmas morning that one time, he was my friend.
In March, the owner of the coffee shop he frequented contacted me and said that Josh didn't look too good. His hygiene was slipping and he appeared to be somewhat forgetful. I checked Josh out but he didn't appear to be too bad, the guy was in his early 70s and lived alone so, being a guy who lives alone myself, it was somewhat understandable.
I last saw him for coffee in June. We met and talked and said we'd get in contact after the 4th. I realized I hadn't heard from him for a while, he normally contacted me or I contacted him once a month or so. I texted him but he didn't reply so I had my suspicions.
Today, I went looking for his name and found him. He had been shopping in a local store and collapsed. Attempts to resuscitate him were unsuccessful and he died on July 7, 2017. He never married and had no immediate family. He was my friend and I will miss him.
I asked my fiance, who is Jewish herself, what Jews say for "Rest in Peace". She says it's "Baruch dayan emet". So, I will close this with:
Baruch dayan emet, My friend. I will miss you.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Supper's Ready
An end of year post with a creepy little very short story.
Supper's Ready
"Supper's ready.", the quiet little man whispered to the room of enthralled diners.
"Ohh, lovely!", said an older woman with a dewlapped neck. "I've heard SO much about this place and their dishes."
"Tonight, you're in for a treat. Johnson Ribs Au Jus with asparagus in a delicate bechamel sauce and an invigorating peppermint potato."
"Peppermint potato?" a fat man said with some concern. "I've never heard of such a thing!"
"The potatoes are mashed and the mint is very light. It adds refreshing highlights to the au jus from the ribs. Trust me, Sir, you will be very happy."
"I should hope so!" the man blustered, "Now, what is this Johnson rib nonsense?"
"Well, Sir, it is the name of the originator of the dish."
"Ah, all right, then.", the blustery man seemed content.
"Very good, Sir. Are there any more questions?" The quiet little man looked around the table, making contact with each of the six diners at the table. "No? Then, let the feasting begin."
The first course out of the kitchen was a delicately seasoned salad with strips of what appeared to be bacon placed along the sides.
A large woman at the end of the table moaned as she ate the dish.
"Oh, this is marvelous." she exclaimed. "I love the pralines and bacon together. Such a wonderful pairing of salty and sweet."
The quiet little man bowed. "I am glad you have enjoyed it, and now, the soup. A bone broth with faux duck confit."
"Faux duck? I did not pay $1500 a plate for faux anything!" exclaimed the blustery man.
"Faux, in this case, Sir, merely means that it is not duck. The actual meat is a trade secret. It has a similar taste profile to duck but is far richer. Try it, I implore you."
The man tentatively spooned out some of the confit and placed it in his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head in ecstasy.
"No Sir, nothing faux here."
The diners continued their meal in silence, only pausing to take sips of wine and pat their mouths with their napkins.
"A palate cleanser before we continue?", the quiet little man signalled to the waiters who brought out small bowls of melon sorbet. The diners quickly downed the dish and waited expectantly.
"And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I present our main course. Johnson Ribs Au Jus."
The wait staff brought out the plates and put them before the diners. Each contained a small rack of long, thin ribs, a half dozen asparagus sprouts with a cream sauce across the middle and mashed potatoes with a sprig of mint in the center. For some minutes there was nothing but the clack and ting of cutlery on plates, the sipping of wine and a low buzz of conversation could be heard around the room.
The blustery man spoke up, "I say, I should like to meet this Johnson fellow. His ribs are spectacular!"
The little man smiled deprecatingly "Quite impossible, I'm afraid. Mr. Johnson had another dinner appointment. If you would like to come back after the meal, Sir, I can show you where the meal was prepared."
"Yes, that will be very good, Sir. Thank you."
The little man nodded his head. "And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, if you would retire to the Parlor, we will be serving coffee, port and cigars. We thank you for your patronage." He walked to the Blustery Man.
"Mister?"
"Darion Fitzwilliam."
"Ah, very good. Mr. Fitzwilliam, please come this way."
The little man lead Fitzwilliam through the door to the kitchen. He opened it and allowed the blustery man to go ahead of him, as he entered the room, he reached up to the left for a large bat. He continued his arm down and struck Fitzwilliam across the back of his neck. Fitzwilliam dropped to the floor like a sack. The little man gestured to the prep staff. "Take him back to the preparation room. In two weeks, we will be serving Roast Haunch Fitzwilliam."
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Very Well Met
The trip into The City was brutal. I missed the train to Penn Station by, quite literally, 10 seconds. Phone call to her brought her answering machine, "Damn."
Train comes, and I get on it, nervous but not nervous enough to not read. My vice, you see. It won't kill you like heroin or make your clothes stink like tobacco but if you are a reader you have to have a book with you, just in case you have some down time. I'm reading something by Heinlein, "Starship Troopers", story about what man owes to Society as much as a good sci-fi military yarn. I settle back and let the train take me.
I'm nervous about going into New York. I'm from everywhere that doesn't have big cities. I've been around them but have never been that comfortable. Even though I've lived in New Jersey, at this point, twenty years, going into The City (it's always capitalized in my head like that, by the way) is an adventure and somewhat worrying.
Train pulls into Penn station and I look at the printed directions I had gotten from her. Okay, take the A Train to 181st Street. Got it. I find the A train and, again, miss it by seconds. Figuring it's New York, I don't bother to call, there will be another train along shortly. 30 minutes later, the A Train comes in. I get on and find a seat. I don't read because I don't have any idea how far along 181st Street is.
"*Squawk*...train runs only to 168th Street due to construction. For points north of *squawk*, you will have to take the provided shuttle buses."
Shuttle buses? Well, this won't be too bad. I'll take the shuttle to 181st and walk from there, no problem. I look at my phone and see that it's currently 8:15. I was supposed to meet her at 8 at the restaurant. At 168th Street, I make another call, get her answering machine and tell it what happened.
"So, I'm on my way. Should be there soon, I hope."
I hang up and get on the shuttle. Sitting near the front so that, hopefully, I will see 181st Street. We get there. You know, there are some very dark alleys in New York. This is one of the darkest alleys I've ever seen. Anywhere. This is supposed to be Manhattan but...I'm not sure. So, I get out of the bus and start walking in a direction. One of my philosophies is: Do something, even if it's wrong. Meaning you can always make a course correction later.
So, I'm wandering around this alley when I see someone and ask them where "Fort Washington Avenue" is. He looks at me like I'm insane. That's because no one in New York asks questions like this. Quite literally no one. Just not done. So, I'm obviously from out of town. He answers me by pointing up the longest and steepest set of stairs I have ever seen. They seem to go straight up in almost a ladder like formation. I look at my phone again. 8:40. I hope she's still there and begin to run up the stairs.
I have to stop half way up, of course. I'm 46 and not used to running. I stop, catch my breath and look at my phone. 8:42. Come on, you can do it! I 'sprint' up the stairs and look panting at the note of where to go. Kismet. I see it across the street from The World's Longest Staircase And Torture Center and cross the street.
Coming in the door, I see the waiter and ask if she's there. He looks surprised and points at a very angry looking woman in the corner, finishing her dinner. I stumble over and say "I'm Andrew." I hit her with a winning smile and start to explain what happened. As I recount the journey, her anger dissipates. She starts to laugh. I order my dinner and eat and we chat and joke. I flick some water in her face which makes her do it back. We're both grinning as we settle the checks and head out of Kismet.
She explains to me that she didn't know about the construction on the A Train and that she would have given me different instructions. I don't worry about it, I made it there. We walk up Fort Washington Avenue, toward the George Washington Bridge and stop at Starbucks. I order a coffee, she orders a hot chocolate. We continue to talk and laugh until they closed up Starbucks around us. We went outside unsure what to do next. So, I leaned in and kissed her and...
The world stopped. The kiss was one of those rare first kisses that seems to go on forever. I pulled her tighter to me and continued to kiss her. Then, we broke the kiss, looked at each other and have been together ever since.
That happened six years ago today. Happy Anniversary, My Marcy. I love you.
Train comes, and I get on it, nervous but not nervous enough to not read. My vice, you see. It won't kill you like heroin or make your clothes stink like tobacco but if you are a reader you have to have a book with you, just in case you have some down time. I'm reading something by Heinlein, "Starship Troopers", story about what man owes to Society as much as a good sci-fi military yarn. I settle back and let the train take me.
I'm nervous about going into New York. I'm from everywhere that doesn't have big cities. I've been around them but have never been that comfortable. Even though I've lived in New Jersey, at this point, twenty years, going into The City (it's always capitalized in my head like that, by the way) is an adventure and somewhat worrying.
Train pulls into Penn station and I look at the printed directions I had gotten from her. Okay, take the A Train to 181st Street. Got it. I find the A train and, again, miss it by seconds. Figuring it's New York, I don't bother to call, there will be another train along shortly. 30 minutes later, the A Train comes in. I get on and find a seat. I don't read because I don't have any idea how far along 181st Street is.
"*Squawk*...train runs only to 168th Street due to construction. For points north of *squawk*, you will have to take the provided shuttle buses."
Shuttle buses? Well, this won't be too bad. I'll take the shuttle to 181st and walk from there, no problem. I look at my phone and see that it's currently 8:15. I was supposed to meet her at 8 at the restaurant. At 168th Street, I make another call, get her answering machine and tell it what happened.
"So, I'm on my way. Should be there soon, I hope."
I hang up and get on the shuttle. Sitting near the front so that, hopefully, I will see 181st Street. We get there. You know, there are some very dark alleys in New York. This is one of the darkest alleys I've ever seen. Anywhere. This is supposed to be Manhattan but...I'm not sure. So, I get out of the bus and start walking in a direction. One of my philosophies is: Do something, even if it's wrong. Meaning you can always make a course correction later.
So, I'm wandering around this alley when I see someone and ask them where "Fort Washington Avenue" is. He looks at me like I'm insane. That's because no one in New York asks questions like this. Quite literally no one. Just not done. So, I'm obviously from out of town. He answers me by pointing up the longest and steepest set of stairs I have ever seen. They seem to go straight up in almost a ladder like formation. I look at my phone again. 8:40. I hope she's still there and begin to run up the stairs.
I have to stop half way up, of course. I'm 46 and not used to running. I stop, catch my breath and look at my phone. 8:42. Come on, you can do it! I 'sprint' up the stairs and look panting at the note of where to go. Kismet. I see it across the street from The World's Longest Staircase And Torture Center and cross the street.
Coming in the door, I see the waiter and ask if she's there. He looks surprised and points at a very angry looking woman in the corner, finishing her dinner. I stumble over and say "I'm Andrew." I hit her with a winning smile and start to explain what happened. As I recount the journey, her anger dissipates. She starts to laugh. I order my dinner and eat and we chat and joke. I flick some water in her face which makes her do it back. We're both grinning as we settle the checks and head out of Kismet.
She explains to me that she didn't know about the construction on the A Train and that she would have given me different instructions. I don't worry about it, I made it there. We walk up Fort Washington Avenue, toward the George Washington Bridge and stop at Starbucks. I order a coffee, she orders a hot chocolate. We continue to talk and laugh until they closed up Starbucks around us. We went outside unsure what to do next. So, I leaned in and kissed her and...
The world stopped. The kiss was one of those rare first kisses that seems to go on forever. I pulled her tighter to me and continued to kiss her. Then, we broke the kiss, looked at each other and have been together ever since.
That happened six years ago today. Happy Anniversary, My Marcy. I love you.
Friday, June 20, 2014
On Being Twenty-One
On June 12, 1993, in the dark, early morning hours my son arrived. He was a larger than average baby and very alert. He was also mad as hell. His little face scrunched up, he bellowed his displeasure to the world as he lie on the air bed that they put all babies in so they can put goop in their eyes and perform incomprehensible tests. I reached out a hand and touched his belly.
"It's all right, Alex, Daddy's here."
His head whipped around and he stopped yelling and started grousing at me. He had recognized my voice and was comforted by my touch. I just kept rubbing his tummy and talking quietly to him until they were ready to swaddle him and give him to his mother. I was a father, not yet a Dad. This small person was going to help me figure it out.
As with all my children, I have flash memories of him growing up.
Before he was born, I was talking with my wife and noticed this foot shape showing in her belly. He was stretching. It was causing her considerable discomfort, so I put my hand gently on the foot and pushed a little bit. He started kicking enough that my wife was bouncing around on the couch yelling "Stop touching the foot! Stop touching the foot!"
He's two and we're Trick or Treating in our development. He's dressed as a farmer and doesn't quite understand what's going on. He's walking ahead of me with his straw hat on and one hand raised at shoulder height in an "I don't get it" gesture. He's talking to himself. I'm walking behind him grinning my fool head off.
He's two and a half and is in the hospital. We had gone to Thanksgiving at my parents' house in Maine. We didn't know he was allergic to cats until he couldn't breathe. We took him to the emergency room twice that night, the second time, we stayed until he was admitted. The doctor is trying to show us that 93% blood oxygenation is just fine on him. Newsflash, asshole, he should be at 97% he's 2. They get a pediatric pulmonologist who admits him immediately.
They need to put in an IV and he's not cooperating. I have to hold him down so they can. I'm stroking his face and whispering to him. He looks at the needle going in and passes out. I spend the night in the hospital room with him. For the next two nights. His mother hates hospitals, but eventually, I need to go get a shower. So she comes into the hospital room. I head to my parents and have a shower, some turkey stew and a cry. I come back and he's hopping mad. He's crying at the top of his lungs. I ask him, "Alex, where's your mom?" He says the first words I can recall him ever saying "I don't know!"
I calm him down and tell him I'll be right back. Go to the nurses station to discover that his mother has been taken to the emergency room in labor. False labor, but still. I say to her "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take." She smiles and tells me that I have to take it because I'm the strong one.
On the way back to New Jersey, we have to stop every 4 hours to give him a nebulizer treatment. There was nowhere at this one rest stop in Connecticut where I could plug in the nebulizer. I asked the guy at the candy counter there if I could. He smiled and said "Sure, I have kids too."
He's five and we're at an ATM getting some money to go to the movies. Alex is standing next to me and says at the top of his voice: "How much money did you get out, Dad?"
He's six and I've brought home a laptop computer from work. We sit at it for 3 days, playing video games together.
He's seven and is being praised as one of the brightest children that his teachers have ever seen.
He's 9 and we're having a birthday party that involves super soakers. No one, even his grandparents, escape dry. He's made only one request for music, which I'm in charge of: Souza's "Stars and Stripes Forever."
He's 13 and showing me a painting he's done for art class. Along with his very talented writing he's on a bright course.
He's 14 and standing stoically while his mother and I tell them we are getting divorced. I notice his eyes are glistening but he's refusing to cry.
He's 16 and I'm looking at him while we talk about his bouts with Depression. I tell him how much I love him and that I am afraid he will do something drastic. He assures me he will not. I hold him to that.
He's 18 and just graduated from high school. I cannot find him in the crowd, he finds me. His hand claps me on the shoulder and I spin around and catch him in a titanic bear hug. Lifting this young man who is a good 4 inches taller than I am up and squeezing him.
He's 19 and in his sophomore year at college. He's been having problems with Depression. Bad ones. I drive up to his college and wait for him. He comes around the corner and I'm reminded of myself. He's not happy, I can see that. He's incredibly down. I'm worried, but I try not to let it show.
Over the next three hours, we talk about things. We buy him snacks. We buy him stuff he needs. He takes a shower while I wait. We go to dinner at a local Ruby Tuesdays and continue to talk. I think it will work out.
On June 12, he turned 21. He ended up leaving college. The Depression, that flaccid, suffocating bitch, almost killed him. He's been home, getting his head together. He's much happier. He smiles, he jokes, he's 21 so he knows everything. Just like I did.
He was the first gift of Grace. I have two others, but he was the first. Although this post seems to be very down, it's very true. I look at my boy as a blessing. A bright spark in my universe. He will find his way, hell, I did. His grandfather did too. I have no doubts.
I love you, Alex. I always will.
Dad.
"It's all right, Alex, Daddy's here."
His head whipped around and he stopped yelling and started grousing at me. He had recognized my voice and was comforted by my touch. I just kept rubbing his tummy and talking quietly to him until they were ready to swaddle him and give him to his mother. I was a father, not yet a Dad. This small person was going to help me figure it out.
As with all my children, I have flash memories of him growing up.
Before he was born, I was talking with my wife and noticed this foot shape showing in her belly. He was stretching. It was causing her considerable discomfort, so I put my hand gently on the foot and pushed a little bit. He started kicking enough that my wife was bouncing around on the couch yelling "Stop touching the foot! Stop touching the foot!"
He's two and we're Trick or Treating in our development. He's dressed as a farmer and doesn't quite understand what's going on. He's walking ahead of me with his straw hat on and one hand raised at shoulder height in an "I don't get it" gesture. He's talking to himself. I'm walking behind him grinning my fool head off.
He's two and a half and is in the hospital. We had gone to Thanksgiving at my parents' house in Maine. We didn't know he was allergic to cats until he couldn't breathe. We took him to the emergency room twice that night, the second time, we stayed until he was admitted. The doctor is trying to show us that 93% blood oxygenation is just fine on him. Newsflash, asshole, he should be at 97% he's 2. They get a pediatric pulmonologist who admits him immediately.
They need to put in an IV and he's not cooperating. I have to hold him down so they can. I'm stroking his face and whispering to him. He looks at the needle going in and passes out. I spend the night in the hospital room with him. For the next two nights. His mother hates hospitals, but eventually, I need to go get a shower. So she comes into the hospital room. I head to my parents and have a shower, some turkey stew and a cry. I come back and he's hopping mad. He's crying at the top of his lungs. I ask him, "Alex, where's your mom?" He says the first words I can recall him ever saying "I don't know!"
I calm him down and tell him I'll be right back. Go to the nurses station to discover that his mother has been taken to the emergency room in labor. False labor, but still. I say to her "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take." She smiles and tells me that I have to take it because I'm the strong one.
On the way back to New Jersey, we have to stop every 4 hours to give him a nebulizer treatment. There was nowhere at this one rest stop in Connecticut where I could plug in the nebulizer. I asked the guy at the candy counter there if I could. He smiled and said "Sure, I have kids too."
He's five and we're at an ATM getting some money to go to the movies. Alex is standing next to me and says at the top of his voice: "How much money did you get out, Dad?"
He's six and I've brought home a laptop computer from work. We sit at it for 3 days, playing video games together.
He's seven and is being praised as one of the brightest children that his teachers have ever seen.
He's 9 and we're having a birthday party that involves super soakers. No one, even his grandparents, escape dry. He's made only one request for music, which I'm in charge of: Souza's "Stars and Stripes Forever."
He's 13 and showing me a painting he's done for art class. Along with his very talented writing he's on a bright course.
He's 14 and standing stoically while his mother and I tell them we are getting divorced. I notice his eyes are glistening but he's refusing to cry.
He's 16 and I'm looking at him while we talk about his bouts with Depression. I tell him how much I love him and that I am afraid he will do something drastic. He assures me he will not. I hold him to that.
He's 18 and just graduated from high school. I cannot find him in the crowd, he finds me. His hand claps me on the shoulder and I spin around and catch him in a titanic bear hug. Lifting this young man who is a good 4 inches taller than I am up and squeezing him.
He's 19 and in his sophomore year at college. He's been having problems with Depression. Bad ones. I drive up to his college and wait for him. He comes around the corner and I'm reminded of myself. He's not happy, I can see that. He's incredibly down. I'm worried, but I try not to let it show.
Over the next three hours, we talk about things. We buy him snacks. We buy him stuff he needs. He takes a shower while I wait. We go to dinner at a local Ruby Tuesdays and continue to talk. I think it will work out.
On June 12, he turned 21. He ended up leaving college. The Depression, that flaccid, suffocating bitch, almost killed him. He's been home, getting his head together. He's much happier. He smiles, he jokes, he's 21 so he knows everything. Just like I did.
He was the first gift of Grace. I have two others, but he was the first. Although this post seems to be very down, it's very true. I look at my boy as a blessing. A bright spark in my universe. He will find his way, hell, I did. His grandfather did too. I have no doubts.
I love you, Alex. I always will.
Dad.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
A cab ride to remember
Last Saturday, I was privileged to attend a surprise 50th birthday party for a friend of mine at a local brew pub. (By the way, it's Iron Hill Brewery in Maple Shade, NJ. Awesome beer.) So, I had had a few by the end of the party. My fiance and I decided that, as she's a native New Yorker and doesn't know how to drive and I was in no condition to drive, we would get a ride to the hotel from some friends and then come back for the car the next day.
Spent a lovely evening and night with her and, the next morning, went to call a cab. After about 20 minutes, a huge Cadillac Escalade shows up, a short, dapper Indian gentleman with a bluetooth headset screwed into his ear comes in and collects us. We climb up and into this huge vehicle and we're off! The first thing I notice is that the leather seats are polished. I don't have my seatbelt on and the arm rest is up so I go sliding off the seat. I laughed and put on the belt and put down the arm rest as we began careening down the Burlington County and State roads heading to Maple Shade.
The driver begins talking to us, asking where we are from. What we had been up to. Why we were going to Maple Shade and not to, say Philadelphia International Airport. Now, my fiance is from New York City but the driver seemed unwilling to accept her word that she was from there. I guess the accent wasn't enough for him. He seemed to accept, readily enough, that I was from "everywhere" and we barrelled down the roads.
About ten minutes into the ride, he turns on the radio, or at least the sound system. Indian pop music plays and a screen lights up on his dashboard with the accompanying music video. Thinking we want to see the video, he reaches behind him and fumbles around, dropping the Escalade's rear seat video screen down and we are treated to a song that sounds like "Dirty Disco". Did some research later and the song is actually called "Dard e Disco" or "Pain of Disco". It was, indeed, painful. The music video seemed to be completely about a very buff Indian man (later found out it was actor Shahrukh Khan) lip syncing and dancing along with a lot of blonde ladies. He emerged out of water. They threw water on him so the fabric of his shirt clung to his awesome abs. This was followed by an Indian woman singing something, I haven't been able to track down what her song was, even though we heard it twice.
As we caroomed down the highways, our driver alternately singing along with the music and shouting in Hindi at whoever was on the phone with him, I noticed that, according to his GPS, we were coming up on our exit. Then, we passed our exit. Dard e Disco. Then we came up on another one, and while he was shouting along with the lyrics, we passed that one too, Dard e Disco. Finally, he noticed that he could exit at the next exit and zoomed over and got off the highway. After zipping around the backroads a bit, I saw Iron Hill and pointed it out to him. I also pointed out to him the jug handle he would need to take to get over there*, as he looked like he was going to simply drive on the wrong side of the road for about 100 yards to get to the driveway. Dard e Disco.
We got out of the Escalade and paid the man $60 which included a $15 dollar tip because we didn't want to talk to him any more, we just wanted to get out of the truck. We were laughing about the whole thing, it was another adventure of a marvelous weekend.
Dard e Disco.
*In New Jersey, you can't make left hand turns, a lot of times. You have to proceed to a traffic light which will have a turnoff that will allow you to cross traffic. These are called "Jug Handles" because of what they look like on a map.
Spent a lovely evening and night with her and, the next morning, went to call a cab. After about 20 minutes, a huge Cadillac Escalade shows up, a short, dapper Indian gentleman with a bluetooth headset screwed into his ear comes in and collects us. We climb up and into this huge vehicle and we're off! The first thing I notice is that the leather seats are polished. I don't have my seatbelt on and the arm rest is up so I go sliding off the seat. I laughed and put on the belt and put down the arm rest as we began careening down the Burlington County and State roads heading to Maple Shade.
The driver begins talking to us, asking where we are from. What we had been up to. Why we were going to Maple Shade and not to, say Philadelphia International Airport. Now, my fiance is from New York City but the driver seemed unwilling to accept her word that she was from there. I guess the accent wasn't enough for him. He seemed to accept, readily enough, that I was from "everywhere" and we barrelled down the roads.
About ten minutes into the ride, he turns on the radio, or at least the sound system. Indian pop music plays and a screen lights up on his dashboard with the accompanying music video. Thinking we want to see the video, he reaches behind him and fumbles around, dropping the Escalade's rear seat video screen down and we are treated to a song that sounds like "Dirty Disco". Did some research later and the song is actually called "Dard e Disco" or "Pain of Disco". It was, indeed, painful. The music video seemed to be completely about a very buff Indian man (later found out it was actor Shahrukh Khan) lip syncing and dancing along with a lot of blonde ladies. He emerged out of water. They threw water on him so the fabric of his shirt clung to his awesome abs. This was followed by an Indian woman singing something, I haven't been able to track down what her song was, even though we heard it twice.
As we caroomed down the highways, our driver alternately singing along with the music and shouting in Hindi at whoever was on the phone with him, I noticed that, according to his GPS, we were coming up on our exit. Then, we passed our exit. Dard e Disco. Then we came up on another one, and while he was shouting along with the lyrics, we passed that one too, Dard e Disco. Finally, he noticed that he could exit at the next exit and zoomed over and got off the highway. After zipping around the backroads a bit, I saw Iron Hill and pointed it out to him. I also pointed out to him the jug handle he would need to take to get over there*, as he looked like he was going to simply drive on the wrong side of the road for about 100 yards to get to the driveway. Dard e Disco.
We got out of the Escalade and paid the man $60 which included a $15 dollar tip because we didn't want to talk to him any more, we just wanted to get out of the truck. We were laughing about the whole thing, it was another adventure of a marvelous weekend.
Dard e Disco.
*In New Jersey, you can't make left hand turns, a lot of times. You have to proceed to a traffic light which will have a turnoff that will allow you to cross traffic. These are called "Jug Handles" because of what they look like on a map.
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