Thursday, June 9, 2011
Funeral Services
Services for Jerry will be held at Good Shepherd Catholic Community in Colleyville, TX. Visitation and wake will be Sunday at 5:00pm, and the funeral service will be Monday at 10:00am.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Health Update
Loyal blog followers,
Another guest columnist today - this is Katie, Jerry's daughter. Unfortunately, I write to inform you that Dad is no longer in a state where he is able to post to his blog. But, in the interest of keeping the people who care about him the most informed, I'm going to try to give you an accurate update of his status.
To back up a bit, Dad married my brother Mike and his (now) wife Kris on Saturday. Yes, that's right, he actually married them. This past Saturday. By himself. He performed the ceremony himself (beautifully, articulately, and heartwarmingly -- typical Dad) from his wheelchair. On top of that, he was up until all hours of the night hanging out, chatting, reminiscing, and Dad-ing with the family. He even outlasted my husband, who was desperately longing for sleep about 3 hours before Dad even considered heading to bed!
But his health has taken a significant turn for the worse since then. Overnight on Sunday, he had significant problems breathing, and was having breathing-related panic attacks all night and for much of the day yesterday. The hospice care nurses were in crisis mode yesterday dealing with this new breathing problem, and ultimately, the only viable solution was to give him enough morphine and other drugs to both help with his breathing and help him avoid the panic attacks that are inherently linked with breathing attacks. The drugs were very helpful, and he was comfortable yesterday. But today, again, his health has declined even more. He's having even more trouble breathing and is highly agitated but not truly conscious. The hospice nurse told us this afternoon that he has days left.
Please keep our family in your thoughts and prayers as we go through this very, very difficult time.
Another guest columnist today - this is Katie, Jerry's daughter. Unfortunately, I write to inform you that Dad is no longer in a state where he is able to post to his blog. But, in the interest of keeping the people who care about him the most informed, I'm going to try to give you an accurate update of his status.
To back up a bit, Dad married my brother Mike and his (now) wife Kris on Saturday. Yes, that's right, he actually married them. This past Saturday. By himself. He performed the ceremony himself (beautifully, articulately, and heartwarmingly -- typical Dad) from his wheelchair. On top of that, he was up until all hours of the night hanging out, chatting, reminiscing, and Dad-ing with the family. He even outlasted my husband, who was desperately longing for sleep about 3 hours before Dad even considered heading to bed!
But his health has taken a significant turn for the worse since then. Overnight on Sunday, he had significant problems breathing, and was having breathing-related panic attacks all night and for much of the day yesterday. The hospice care nurses were in crisis mode yesterday dealing with this new breathing problem, and ultimately, the only viable solution was to give him enough morphine and other drugs to both help with his breathing and help him avoid the panic attacks that are inherently linked with breathing attacks. The drugs were very helpful, and he was comfortable yesterday. But today, again, his health has declined even more. He's having even more trouble breathing and is highly agitated but not truly conscious. The hospice nurse told us this afternoon that he has days left.
Please keep our family in your thoughts and prayers as we go through this very, very difficult time.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
No Cars! End of Talk!
In the last ten to fifteen years, I've been confronted numberless times with my inability to determine when to stop talking. This disease, verbal emisis, is little known but can easily be desbribed as the brain's lack of a control mechnism telling the mouth when to give up conversation...that it's time to move on, in other words. This disease is more like the opposite of verbal constipation than the presence of tourette's syndrome (although I have been known to break out in a fit of uncontrolled venom-spitting rage-spewing ca-ca stenched potty mouth at times.) This means that a short talk with someone doesn't nesessarily mean the same to me as it may mean to you.
About 15 years ago, just before Megan turned 5, we had reached the end of the road with our mini-van (a Toyota Previa) and, although we liked the van, we decided to move up a bit in size and style so I decided to go looking for a replacement. As is happens, our other car was a Lexus sedan and we'd had a great deal of luck with it. It was a nice ride, stylish and attractive on the road, and comfortable to ride in. And better yet, Lexus had a new SUV that it was offering. So, setting myself into car-buying predator mode, I set out to do battle against the dealership monsters with my secret weapon in tow - Megan.
Now Megan takes a bit after her mother - she's a celtic beauty with brains, and a spirit that says second place is just a better vantage point from which to look at a winner's ass. As such, she's a valuable tool to be used in the negotiating game. Witness the tail-end of this conversation in which I had obviously been struck by a case of verbal emesis.
{interminable conversation precedes}
Salesman: I like the black one too but notice how the white one just seems to pop off the page at you?
Jerry: I do. I do! I might like the black one, though...what do you have available?
Salesman: (Recognizing easy pickings) The good news is that we can have this beauty on the floor for you to look at in less than two weeks!
Jerry: (Disappointed) Okay, then, okay we'll take the white one...when can you bring it around for me to see? oh, and, uh, to test drive! (knowing a man always takes a test spin before committing)
Salesman: Hmmmm....that one is on the same shipment as the other. So it'll be about two weeks and then there's the prep work...
At this point Megan starts fidgeting. She's been seated here for more than 30 minutes and has seen no progress. She's been taking out notes and scribbling on them for the past five minutes, but now the scribbling gets frantic.
Jerry: (Sensing a defeat of some sort) Okay. We'll just go with the gray one then. When can I test drive that little baby?
Salesman: (suddenly coming to the realization that he's being confronted by a moron who needs his medication - and fast) Uhhh...two weeks...just like the others.
At this, Megan, having seen the pathetic desparation in her father's eyes, and unwilling to spend any more time on this nonsense violently rips a note from her pad and hands it to me with a scowl.
"No Cars. End of talk!" it says. And she promptly scoots her butt off the chair in the showroom stall of the car salesman, grabs my hand, and leads me away stunned. We didn't buy a Lexus that day, in fact we didn't buy any car that day. I realized that I was being led by the master of them all and I just wanted to bask in her glory. We still have that note somewhere in the house, stored as a family treaure against a time when no living person will know it's meaning. But I'm suspecting that my little celtic beauty will leave her mark on the world in other ways as long as we all remember when talk ends and action begins.
About 15 years ago, just before Megan turned 5, we had reached the end of the road with our mini-van (a Toyota Previa) and, although we liked the van, we decided to move up a bit in size and style so I decided to go looking for a replacement. As is happens, our other car was a Lexus sedan and we'd had a great deal of luck with it. It was a nice ride, stylish and attractive on the road, and comfortable to ride in. And better yet, Lexus had a new SUV that it was offering. So, setting myself into car-buying predator mode, I set out to do battle against the dealership monsters with my secret weapon in tow - Megan.
Now Megan takes a bit after her mother - she's a celtic beauty with brains, and a spirit that says second place is just a better vantage point from which to look at a winner's ass. As such, she's a valuable tool to be used in the negotiating game. Witness the tail-end of this conversation in which I had obviously been struck by a case of verbal emesis.
{interminable conversation precedes}
Salesman: I like the black one too but notice how the white one just seems to pop off the page at you?
Jerry: I do. I do! I might like the black one, though...what do you have available?
Salesman: (Recognizing easy pickings) The good news is that we can have this beauty on the floor for you to look at in less than two weeks!
Jerry: (Disappointed) Okay, then, okay we'll take the white one...when can you bring it around for me to see? oh, and, uh, to test drive! (knowing a man always takes a test spin before committing)
Salesman: Hmmmm....that one is on the same shipment as the other. So it'll be about two weeks and then there's the prep work...
At this point Megan starts fidgeting. She's been seated here for more than 30 minutes and has seen no progress. She's been taking out notes and scribbling on them for the past five minutes, but now the scribbling gets frantic.
Jerry: (Sensing a defeat of some sort) Okay. We'll just go with the gray one then. When can I test drive that little baby?
Salesman: (suddenly coming to the realization that he's being confronted by a moron who needs his medication - and fast) Uhhh...two weeks...just like the others.
At this, Megan, having seen the pathetic desparation in her father's eyes, and unwilling to spend any more time on this nonsense violently rips a note from her pad and hands it to me with a scowl.
"No Cars. End of talk!" it says. And she promptly scoots her butt off the chair in the showroom stall of the car salesman, grabs my hand, and leads me away stunned. We didn't buy a Lexus that day, in fact we didn't buy any car that day. I realized that I was being led by the master of them all and I just wanted to bask in her glory. We still have that note somewhere in the house, stored as a family treaure against a time when no living person will know it's meaning. But I'm suspecting that my little celtic beauty will leave her mark on the world in other ways as long as we all remember when talk ends and action begins.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Serendipitous!: Adj. 1. come upon or found by accident; fortuitous
Sometimes, serendipity is where you intended to be when you set out, but mostly, it's not. For example, last summer I headed north to Kansas where I was actually headed to Serendipity, Judy's ranch, for a visit with some siblings. By contrast, I had two pretty cool serendipitous experiences within 24 hours of each other in Rome in 2004. And that doesn't include hearing President George H.W.Bush speak about the Iraq war and his pride in his son.
Liz and I had come to Rome with different agendas: Hers was all business while mine was decidedly otherwise. At the end of a week of meetings, Liz and I had decided to hang around Rome for a few days to see some sights and to let her soak in some of the things that normal business people (fly in Monday morning, fly out Friday aftenoon) simply don't get a chance to see or do. One of Liz's employees had decided to stay along with us and we set out to explore Rome together. On Saturday afternoon, we asked the concierge at the InterContinental for a good restaurant recommendation and she obliged by hooking us up with a taxi driver who gave us a knowing "tourist" sigh and then shooed us into his car where he proceeded down the hill at la dolce vita speeds into a warren of back allies and little side streets where he then, somewhat unceremoneously, dumped us at the front door to our restaurant, Alfredo alla Scrofa.
We were escorted into the room and to our table by a friendly guy in his 50's whose Italian shone with a patina of New York that he happily admitted he had acquired in the 20 years he had lived in the Big Apple. As these things go, we proceeded to have a nice pre-dinner cocktail and then we were ready to order. Steve fell victim to our waiter first, although in fairness it could have been any one of us..
"I think that I'll have the Seafood Risotto, please."
"I, however, think that you want the fettucini Alfredo," retorts the waiter.
Steve is from Chicago. No wimpy Italian waiter is going to push him around, "No," he protests, somewhat less politely than before. "I'll have the Seafood Risotto."
"Alas," says the waiter "but you are having the fettucini Alfredo."
Even Steve can see through the purplish haze developing behind his eyes that there's something strange going on here, so he agrees, reluctantly, but fortuitously.
"Ahhh," says the waiter, "you have seen the name of our restaurant by now, and know that the fettucini alfredo was invented on this spot, yes?" This whole charade with Steve was so that the waiter could expound on his story of the invention of the original "heart attack on a plate" on this very spot. All four of us ate the fettucini and were delighted with the restaurant's signature dish (enough so that Liz and I returned the following evening for seconds!)
The next day, Sunday, found the four of us looking for something to do other than talking about our incredible dinner of the evening before.. Since all four of us were cradle Catholics, it seemed reasonable to go to see the Vatican. And being a horrible cynic and worse iconoclast, I was looking forward to trying out my various jokes and routines as we shuffled across those ancient marble floors.
Of the four, I was the only one to have previously seen the Vatican and its treats: St. Peter's, The Sistine Chapel, the Pieta, the Vatican Museum, etc. So, with this as our plan, we proceeded to the front of the hotel to snag a taxi to St. Peter's Square before all the tourists got them! In fairness (no pun intended) my little sister Joy saw the Pieta at the New York World's Fair in 1964 so I guess that doesn't make me the first in my family.
As we got into the taxi and I told the driver where we were headed, he did a visible double-take, gave us a withering "once over," shook his head and drove out into traffic - clearly he thought we were nuts, but it wasn't clear why he thought that. We didn't notice anything unusual until we got closer to the Square and realized that we could hear chanting and music. Duh! Sunday morning, St. Peter's Square, a ton of Catholics on the loose - where better to have a Mass celebrating something? But then, we noticed that St. Peter's Basilica itself was covered with four enormous banners with the pictures of four people painted on them. And as we got out of the taxi at the foot of the Square, we realized that there weren't thousands of people in the square, but hundreds of thousands. We had stumbled into the beatification ceremony for these four future saints, and we weren't getting out any time soon.
As I have said, and those who know me even vaguely can readily attest, I'm a cynic when it comes to things spiritual. But even I was startled and felt a little buzz up my spine as I realized that the chanting voice was that of the Pope! As a well equipped tourist, I had a video camera with a X225 digital zoom, and I held the camera up, zoomed in on the alter, then cranked up the magnification until I could see the cantor - sure enough, it was Pope John-Paul II, not yet subito santo, but impressive nonetheless. We were left speechless, however, when a pathway opened for us to go to the front of the communion line to receive from a papal stand-in of some sort. Once there, however, we seemed to have a pretty good vantage point so we hung around and sure enough here comes the famous Popemobile down a little street right in front of us...and it's carrying the Pope. He wasn't there for long, but Liz and I were within arm's length of this guy for a few seconds. I've no doubt that some people whom I know and love would've lost their cookies right then and there, but it was too short. In seconds he was gone, waving at the crowd as though he really loved them - which I'm convinced he did. I have a short videotape of this encounter somewhere but it doesn't bring out the same feelings or emotions that Liz and I felt. Kelly, Steve, Liz and I spent the remainder of the day being tourists, buying rosary boxes from the museum, but we didn't talk much about our serendipitous encounter with the pope in St. Perter's Square.
Liz and I had come to Rome with different agendas: Hers was all business while mine was decidedly otherwise. At the end of a week of meetings, Liz and I had decided to hang around Rome for a few days to see some sights and to let her soak in some of the things that normal business people (fly in Monday morning, fly out Friday aftenoon) simply don't get a chance to see or do. One of Liz's employees had decided to stay along with us and we set out to explore Rome together. On Saturday afternoon, we asked the concierge at the InterContinental for a good restaurant recommendation and she obliged by hooking us up with a taxi driver who gave us a knowing "tourist" sigh and then shooed us into his car where he proceeded down the hill at la dolce vita speeds into a warren of back allies and little side streets where he then, somewhat unceremoneously, dumped us at the front door to our restaurant, Alfredo alla Scrofa.
We were escorted into the room and to our table by a friendly guy in his 50's whose Italian shone with a patina of New York that he happily admitted he had acquired in the 20 years he had lived in the Big Apple. As these things go, we proceeded to have a nice pre-dinner cocktail and then we were ready to order. Steve fell victim to our waiter first, although in fairness it could have been any one of us..
"I think that I'll have the Seafood Risotto, please."
"I, however, think that you want the fettucini Alfredo," retorts the waiter.
Steve is from Chicago. No wimpy Italian waiter is going to push him around, "No," he protests, somewhat less politely than before. "I'll have the Seafood Risotto."
"Alas," says the waiter "but you are having the fettucini Alfredo."
Even Steve can see through the purplish haze developing behind his eyes that there's something strange going on here, so he agrees, reluctantly, but fortuitously.
"Ahhh," says the waiter, "you have seen the name of our restaurant by now, and know that the fettucini alfredo was invented on this spot, yes?" This whole charade with Steve was so that the waiter could expound on his story of the invention of the original "heart attack on a plate" on this very spot. All four of us ate the fettucini and were delighted with the restaurant's signature dish (enough so that Liz and I returned the following evening for seconds!)
The next day, Sunday, found the four of us looking for something to do other than talking about our incredible dinner of the evening before.. Since all four of us were cradle Catholics, it seemed reasonable to go to see the Vatican. And being a horrible cynic and worse iconoclast, I was looking forward to trying out my various jokes and routines as we shuffled across those ancient marble floors.
Of the four, I was the only one to have previously seen the Vatican and its treats: St. Peter's, The Sistine Chapel, the Pieta, the Vatican Museum, etc. So, with this as our plan, we proceeded to the front of the hotel to snag a taxi to St. Peter's Square before all the tourists got them! In fairness (no pun intended) my little sister Joy saw the Pieta at the New York World's Fair in 1964 so I guess that doesn't make me the first in my family.
As we got into the taxi and I told the driver where we were headed, he did a visible double-take, gave us a withering "once over," shook his head and drove out into traffic - clearly he thought we were nuts, but it wasn't clear why he thought that. We didn't notice anything unusual until we got closer to the Square and realized that we could hear chanting and music. Duh! Sunday morning, St. Peter's Square, a ton of Catholics on the loose - where better to have a Mass celebrating something? But then, we noticed that St. Peter's Basilica itself was covered with four enormous banners with the pictures of four people painted on them. And as we got out of the taxi at the foot of the Square, we realized that there weren't thousands of people in the square, but hundreds of thousands. We had stumbled into the beatification ceremony for these four future saints, and we weren't getting out any time soon.
As I have said, and those who know me even vaguely can readily attest, I'm a cynic when it comes to things spiritual. But even I was startled and felt a little buzz up my spine as I realized that the chanting voice was that of the Pope! As a well equipped tourist, I had a video camera with a X225 digital zoom, and I held the camera up, zoomed in on the alter, then cranked up the magnification until I could see the cantor - sure enough, it was Pope John-Paul II, not yet subito santo, but impressive nonetheless. We were left speechless, however, when a pathway opened for us to go to the front of the communion line to receive from a papal stand-in of some sort. Once there, however, we seemed to have a pretty good vantage point so we hung around and sure enough here comes the famous Popemobile down a little street right in front of us...and it's carrying the Pope. He wasn't there for long, but Liz and I were within arm's length of this guy for a few seconds. I've no doubt that some people whom I know and love would've lost their cookies right then and there, but it was too short. In seconds he was gone, waving at the crowd as though he really loved them - which I'm convinced he did. I have a short videotape of this encounter somewhere but it doesn't bring out the same feelings or emotions that Liz and I felt. Kelly, Steve, Liz and I spent the remainder of the day being tourists, buying rosary boxes from the museum, but we didn't talk much about our serendipitous encounter with the pope in St. Perter's Square.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The Summer that I Learned to be Mr. Jerry
I spent several hours yesterday evening sitting outside enjoying the low humidity that the South Texas breezes have graced us with as an overlay to the 95 degree temps of the past few days. And I spent it reminiscing about heat in Texas. As I was growing up in New York, I was convinced that Texas meant hot in some Mexican kind of way. Why else would there be Texas Red Hots? Why else Texas Hot Tamales? Why did Texas have a Panhandle if it wasn't hot as the blazes there? Who even knew what a tamale was?
So I was pleasantly surprised when I moved here to discover that the hot stuff about Texas is mostly attitudinal. Yeah, we eat stuff with a few more and different spices here; yeah, 114 degrees is hot by any measure; and yeah, if you get too close to the Gulf Coast, the humidity will eat you alive; but, hey! it's all relative, right?
And the ultimate experience in relative humidity is based not upon where you are, but upon where you've been. I give you, as an example, the relative heat and humidity differences between Plattsburgh, New York and Baltimore, Maryland: July, 1966. In the small northern town of Plattsburgh, the temperature that summer probably averaged around 57-60 at sunrise, something in the neighborhood of 76-78 by 2 p.m. and coasting out the day in a gradual decline from 78-80 down to 55-60 by midnight. The temp in Baltimore: 70-75 by 9:00 a.m., 80-90 by 2:00 p.m., 85-95 by 5:00 p.m., and then declining to about 65 -70 by midnight.
The humidity follows a similar but in ways distinctly different pattern. In Plattsburgh, it was consistently very low - I would guess about 25%; while in Baltimore, it was a constant 100% causing innumerable discomforts and side-effects for a visiting young boy from Plattsburgh.
My life-long babysitter, Judy, took care of me that summer like any big sister would. She made sure that I visited the appropriate sites - places that will live in my memory until the day I die: We saw the battlefield at Antietam, Washington, DC and the Smithsonian, the Druid Hill Park Zoo (??) and we played golf with his father at a course so famous that I now cannot remember its name. She forced her husband to take me to see the Orioles - at which point I was presented the awful reality that the Yankees suck and that the Brooks Robinson/Clete Boyer discussion never really began outside of New York. She also surprised me by being very knowledgable about the sport in general and its statistics, and more than held her own in discussions of the various failures in Earl Weaver's strategies that had undoubtedly cost us the game last night. Weaver preached the fundamentals but hoped for a three-run homer on every at-bat.
By the end of that season, I was a devout Orioles fan and, although I have flirted with allegiance to other teams over the decades, I have never lost my conviction, shared, I'm sure, by most baseball fans, that Brooks was the best third baseman ever to play the game. And while I love Cal Ripken, his is just a bit more than a reflection of Mr. Robinson's greatness as an infielder.
In any event, my loving sister took great delight during that hot and extremely humid summer in assuring that I had plenty of hot water for showers, and plenty of towels to dry off (which was, of course, impossible since the house had no air conditioning). And every night she would recount to her small but growing family, what a happy time she had had all day watching me struggle with getting and staying dry. (It might be better to say "regaled her family with stories" since there was always laughter involved.) The humidity was so bad that summer that (for me, at least) a major high point of the day was watching the dehumidifier fill up so I could empty it again.
I do remember that drive back from Baltimore in August. Not much happened except that, while driving through the Adirondacks that night, we saw a shooting start headed north above us. It undoubtedly got back to the cooler temps and lower humidity much more quickly than we did.
So I was pleasantly surprised when I moved here to discover that the hot stuff about Texas is mostly attitudinal. Yeah, we eat stuff with a few more and different spices here; yeah, 114 degrees is hot by any measure; and yeah, if you get too close to the Gulf Coast, the humidity will eat you alive; but, hey! it's all relative, right?
And the ultimate experience in relative humidity is based not upon where you are, but upon where you've been. I give you, as an example, the relative heat and humidity differences between Plattsburgh, New York and Baltimore, Maryland: July, 1966. In the small northern town of Plattsburgh, the temperature that summer probably averaged around 57-60 at sunrise, something in the neighborhood of 76-78 by 2 p.m. and coasting out the day in a gradual decline from 78-80 down to 55-60 by midnight. The temp in Baltimore: 70-75 by 9:00 a.m., 80-90 by 2:00 p.m., 85-95 by 5:00 p.m., and then declining to about 65 -70 by midnight.
The humidity follows a similar but in ways distinctly different pattern. In Plattsburgh, it was consistently very low - I would guess about 25%; while in Baltimore, it was a constant 100% causing innumerable discomforts and side-effects for a visiting young boy from Plattsburgh.
My life-long babysitter, Judy, took care of me that summer like any big sister would. She made sure that I visited the appropriate sites - places that will live in my memory until the day I die: We saw the battlefield at Antietam, Washington, DC and the Smithsonian, the Druid Hill Park Zoo (??) and we played golf with his father at a course so famous that I now cannot remember its name. She forced her husband to take me to see the Orioles - at which point I was presented the awful reality that the Yankees suck and that the Brooks Robinson/Clete Boyer discussion never really began outside of New York. She also surprised me by being very knowledgable about the sport in general and its statistics, and more than held her own in discussions of the various failures in Earl Weaver's strategies that had undoubtedly cost us the game last night. Weaver preached the fundamentals but hoped for a three-run homer on every at-bat.
By the end of that season, I was a devout Orioles fan and, although I have flirted with allegiance to other teams over the decades, I have never lost my conviction, shared, I'm sure, by most baseball fans, that Brooks was the best third baseman ever to play the game. And while I love Cal Ripken, his is just a bit more than a reflection of Mr. Robinson's greatness as an infielder.
In any event, my loving sister took great delight during that hot and extremely humid summer in assuring that I had plenty of hot water for showers, and plenty of towels to dry off (which was, of course, impossible since the house had no air conditioning). And every night she would recount to her small but growing family, what a happy time she had had all day watching me struggle with getting and staying dry. (It might be better to say "regaled her family with stories" since there was always laughter involved.) The humidity was so bad that summer that (for me, at least) a major high point of the day was watching the dehumidifier fill up so I could empty it again.
I do remember that drive back from Baltimore in August. Not much happened except that, while driving through the Adirondacks that night, we saw a shooting start headed north above us. It undoubtedly got back to the cooler temps and lower humidity much more quickly than we did.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Gasoline on a Stick
I had a long conversation with my sister Joy last night. She wants to come down to visit and I have to say that I'm all in favor of that - I love seeing my siblings and I think her plan includes a stopover in the lower righthand corner of Kansas to pick up Judy and then to drive the remainder of the way here. If I know those two, there will be no quiet between Kansas and here.
I've noticed an interesting phenomenon lately: Talking to a sister always brings back memories of childhood; talking to a brother always brings back sports or military or travel experience memories. And sure enough, the childhood memories came flooding back last night.
When we were very very small children, we used to strap on ice skates (hockey for boys, figure for girls) and then trudge across our snowy cold back yards to the pond at the back of Mr. McAllister's lot. If we were lucky, the older boys had already shoveled the surface and made a very reasonable skating rink, but nobody actually objected to clearing the pond for skating if we had to do it. Sometimes there would be a campfire once we arrived, but usually not and we would step off of the snow-covered grassy pathways, where we were awkward and prone to stumbling, onto the cold white crispy edges of the pond where even a minimally skilled 7 year old was as graceful as a ballerina. The girls, invariably, would loop off from the crowd and delve immediately into practising the softly undulating curves of the figure. The boys, predictably, would rush the center of the pond area like Merrill's Marauders. This was where the roughhouse games were played, and where a hocky stick that may have started life as a broom was brandished in a shouted challenge to other boys to come face the manhood tests of the ice.
These gloriously cold days were always (not sometimes, always) cut short by the screech of the dominant male eagle calling his offspring back to the nest to eat. There were several variations on this eagle's cry, but none as consistent and unfailing as the one directed at us. We knew, of course, that this was simply the whistle of our father summoning us for dinner, but what eaglet is able to resist the ancestral pull of that whistle? Because really, what eaglet doesn't know its father's unique screech? In any event, we would then, reluctantly, start the trek home. The younger ones, whose laces had become so loosened during the day that the skates hung sideways on our feet, would put our heads down against the wind and push slowly, relentlessly, through the now bitter cold to our house, and the welcome of a kerosene furnace that melted more crayons over its life span than anyone can honestly remember.
We would gather coats and blankets, chair cushions and whatever other padded materials we could find, and, after lying down on our backs, slide the skates off of our now numb feet. And we would then place our feet, still in at least one layer of athletic sock, onto the sizzling hot surface of the heat barrel of that kerosene stove. If you found the right spot and the right temperature, it was possible to leave your feet there for a few minutes before they had to be cooled back down on the floor. Mittens, gloves and outer jackets were draped over the top of the heater so that they too could dry out and warm up in anticipation of their next use. The first tingle of circulation returning was immediately greeted by the pain of the thousand little pinpricks that always accompanied the warmed blood. We would then lie there and talk about kid stuff, and sometimes the younger ones would fall asleep until supper was ready.
We had summer time memories too. We came from a small neighborhood that was populated by large familes, and so we had a pool of lots and lots of kids to draw from when it came to games. And we had some epic "kick the can" games that started and ended in front of Leonard's garage on Mildred Avenue. It wasn't unusual to see 40 children scatter across the neighborhood, screeching their eaglet screeches, when the can was kicked. I remember several nights where, having been captured, we would wait in the driveway by the Leonard's house and delight to see Chrissy pull out her twirling batons and gasoline cans. The other guys and I always admired Chrissy's courage in plunging those batons in the gasoline and then lighting them so that she could twirl them - we knew that we could do neither. She always seemed to do this at twilight, and the glow seemed perfect to us. Even today, a whiff of gasoline burned into an old rag evokes Chrissy and her batons.
As we got older, the distances that were traveled from the base became greater, the "team pairings" a little less subtle, and it became obvious that the game had become more of a community babysitting mechanism for countless little brothers and sisters, while the older kids could participate in the groping sessions a little further away from the base. The boys used to love to introduce visiting female cousins to the rituals of massive kick the can games where the best hiding places were often dark and well-padded; and I'm sure that the girls in our neighborhood shared the same enthusiasm with visiting male cousins.
I've noticed an interesting phenomenon lately: Talking to a sister always brings back memories of childhood; talking to a brother always brings back sports or military or travel experience memories. And sure enough, the childhood memories came flooding back last night.
When we were very very small children, we used to strap on ice skates (hockey for boys, figure for girls) and then trudge across our snowy cold back yards to the pond at the back of Mr. McAllister's lot. If we were lucky, the older boys had already shoveled the surface and made a very reasonable skating rink, but nobody actually objected to clearing the pond for skating if we had to do it. Sometimes there would be a campfire once we arrived, but usually not and we would step off of the snow-covered grassy pathways, where we were awkward and prone to stumbling, onto the cold white crispy edges of the pond where even a minimally skilled 7 year old was as graceful as a ballerina. The girls, invariably, would loop off from the crowd and delve immediately into practising the softly undulating curves of the figure. The boys, predictably, would rush the center of the pond area like Merrill's Marauders. This was where the roughhouse games were played, and where a hocky stick that may have started life as a broom was brandished in a shouted challenge to other boys to come face the manhood tests of the ice.
These gloriously cold days were always (not sometimes, always) cut short by the screech of the dominant male eagle calling his offspring back to the nest to eat. There were several variations on this eagle's cry, but none as consistent and unfailing as the one directed at us. We knew, of course, that this was simply the whistle of our father summoning us for dinner, but what eaglet is able to resist the ancestral pull of that whistle? Because really, what eaglet doesn't know its father's unique screech? In any event, we would then, reluctantly, start the trek home. The younger ones, whose laces had become so loosened during the day that the skates hung sideways on our feet, would put our heads down against the wind and push slowly, relentlessly, through the now bitter cold to our house, and the welcome of a kerosene furnace that melted more crayons over its life span than anyone can honestly remember.
We would gather coats and blankets, chair cushions and whatever other padded materials we could find, and, after lying down on our backs, slide the skates off of our now numb feet. And we would then place our feet, still in at least one layer of athletic sock, onto the sizzling hot surface of the heat barrel of that kerosene stove. If you found the right spot and the right temperature, it was possible to leave your feet there for a few minutes before they had to be cooled back down on the floor. Mittens, gloves and outer jackets were draped over the top of the heater so that they too could dry out and warm up in anticipation of their next use. The first tingle of circulation returning was immediately greeted by the pain of the thousand little pinpricks that always accompanied the warmed blood. We would then lie there and talk about kid stuff, and sometimes the younger ones would fall asleep until supper was ready.
We had summer time memories too. We came from a small neighborhood that was populated by large familes, and so we had a pool of lots and lots of kids to draw from when it came to games. And we had some epic "kick the can" games that started and ended in front of Leonard's garage on Mildred Avenue. It wasn't unusual to see 40 children scatter across the neighborhood, screeching their eaglet screeches, when the can was kicked. I remember several nights where, having been captured, we would wait in the driveway by the Leonard's house and delight to see Chrissy pull out her twirling batons and gasoline cans. The other guys and I always admired Chrissy's courage in plunging those batons in the gasoline and then lighting them so that she could twirl them - we knew that we could do neither. She always seemed to do this at twilight, and the glow seemed perfect to us. Even today, a whiff of gasoline burned into an old rag evokes Chrissy and her batons.
As we got older, the distances that were traveled from the base became greater, the "team pairings" a little less subtle, and it became obvious that the game had become more of a community babysitting mechanism for countless little brothers and sisters, while the older kids could participate in the groping sessions a little further away from the base. The boys used to love to introduce visiting female cousins to the rituals of massive kick the can games where the best hiding places were often dark and well-padded; and I'm sure that the girls in our neighborhood shared the same enthusiasm with visiting male cousins.
Falling Asleep
Well, today has to have been the shortest interval between finishing breakfast and falling asleep again since we started with the hospice care. My normal routine in the mornings is to get out of bed, which takes lots of time and effort, by around 9:00 a.m., then try to eat some breakfast while reading the newspaper, then reviewing emails and blog comments if there have been any, and then starting work on today's blog entry. That means that I've usually begun writing by 10:00 a.m. and have determined what I'm going to write about by then. Today, I got up a little late, ate breakfast, and then woke up again at 1:30 p.m. Yes, you heard that right. I don't remember falling asleep today and when I opened the new blog entry posting screen, it was totally blank! Freaky!
One of the other side effects I have been told to expect as we progress down this path is confusion - I've been confused my entire life, so how am I going to know? Maybe I should add a category below the post for { } Befuddled????
One of the other side effects I have been told to expect as we progress down this path is confusion - I've been confused my entire life, so how am I going to know? Maybe I should add a category below the post for { } Befuddled????
Saturday, May 28, 2011
A Wise Chips Postscript
The only person who guessed that Tom Rennell was my team mate on that 1963 Wise Chips team was my mother. That includes Tom's wife Carol about whom I have a funny story that I now shall tell. Tom remembered that we used to get a whole box of Wise Chips $.25 bags after every game from the local distributor,and that this was one of the perks of having them as our sponsor. Another was that the sponsor had a swimming pool and we were periodically invited over to his house as the summer progressed. Dad had also made the brilliant choice of selecting the sponsor's son out of the draft in the summer of 1962 to play for the team, so the benefits continued to accrue!Now, the story about Carol. A couple of years after my parents bought their new house on Broad Street I came along as did another young couple--the Egans. The Egan's were looking for a place to live and the Lavalleys had a big house with plenty of room available for a tenant, and so a match was made and they moved into the "spare apartment." They had a young daughter at the time named Carol, and the both of us combined to a hefty 12-14 months old. So, during certain nap times, Carol and I were often put down in the crib together--and yes, we did sleep together. Fast forward about 50-55 years to a short visit I paid to the happily married Tom and Carol where their daughter was also visiting. And I was introduced to their daughter as "the first guy Mom ever slept with." In fairness, it only took a few moments for their beautiful young daughter to figure out that there must have been a monkey wrench in that stew. But the look of pure "EEEEeeuuuwww!!!" that graced her features for no more than a split second was a reward of its own.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)