Mickey Hadick

We had failed to purchase bait in our gathering of supplies. Considering that we had purchased the three Bs: Beer, Bread, and Baloney, we probably should have been reminded to get a fourth, but whatever. There was a Styrofoam tub of worms in the fridge.

We took up positions around the lake, attached hooks, bobbers, and bait; we cast out our lines. I could now see that the lake was surrounded by thick woods on all other sides, and that the shore near the house was groomed and carefully sloped. The driveway to the house extended as a gravel path along the lake and on into the woods beyond. A chilly fog sat upon the water. Dark mountain peaks ringed the area, and it was quiet. I could hear Mr. J. clearing his throat and settling himself, and Freddie casting out. So nice was this man-made, private haven that there were benches along the shore. I lay on one and promptly fell asleep.

Freddie woke me up a couple of hours later. We were going into town. "What about the lines?" I asked. "Don't worry about them."

We went first to check on the hunting cabin that actually belonged to Mr. J. A few miles from this nice, comfortable cabin, we drove through a gap in the woods along a two track, back along the dirt trail to a clearing. Built into the side of the hill was a sad and lonely building, really no more than a shed, its side worn, weathered and faded. The roof was of black shingles that were coated with green moss.

Inside there was a single light bulb suspended from the ceiling, and a wood burning stove. At one end was a table, and at the other were two sets of bunk beds. On a low table between the bunk beds was a considerable stack of girlie magazines, worn and weathered like the shed itself.

Mr. J. had merely wanted to check that the cabin was still standing, and that no critters had taken up residence, and so, as abruptly as we arrived, we departed once again.

Driving along these western Pennsylvania mountains, I didn't have the feeling of majesty or grandeur one might normally associate with mountains. I saw wooded hills along winding roads, and decrepit trailers in seldom home sites. At the juncture of two roads was a tavern called the Dew Drop Inn. This was "town".

It was, perhaps, eleven o'clock in the morning. Mr. J. settled himself at the bar, and Freddie and I played table-top shuffle board. Mr. J. was talking with the bartender, a woman who appeared to be older than him. Freddie suddenly had a brainstorm: he wanted to do shots. We sidled up to the bar next to Freddie's father, and Freddie asked. It turned out that Mr. J. didn't care. Somehow, that didn't surprise me.

Freddie wanted to do shots of Jack Daniels. I had never done such a thing (though I would soon enough do worse) so that sounded fine to me. The rest became a blur. I know we continued our ongoing, inane conversation of talking about how much beer we had consumed. (I must admit, I was surprised we had stayed up all night drinking beer.) But all that was now punctuated by the smack of an empty shot glass on the bar top, a blow delivered to free us from the shackles of adolescence. We delivered that blow repeatedly, each time thinking we were smarter, tougher, and more masculine than just a minute before.

At some point, Freddie realized he needed to go to the bathroom, but he fell off of the bar stool before he could gain his footing. It became surreal to me, talking with my friend one moment, and laughing at him on the floor the next. However, the look of desperation in his eyes got through to me, and I helped him into the bathroom.

He was sick. Not as sick as senior prom, but sick nonetheless. This displeased Mr. J. mightily, and I was instructed to get the son of a bitch into the car. Freddie was instructed to not vomit in the car, or he'd be walking back to Ohio. I believed him, and I also believe he'd have been walking back to Ohio with his father's shoe up his ass.

The drive back to the cottage was my time to listen to Mr. J. complain about what idiots we were for drinking that much. It was a life lesson of sorts, but, unfortunately, his son, passed out on the floor of the back seat, received no benefit.

At one point, we drove past a field of corn, and Mr. J. stopped the car. "Go get us some corn," he ordered, and out the door I went. This was a new experience for me, trespassing on a farmer's field to steal food. In my state, I didn't care much, and gathered an armload which I deposited on the floor of the car.

This domestic act, stealing food, seemed to mollify Mr. J. and we drove the remaining few miles to the cabin in silence. Once there, we drove past the cabin to the lake, and Mr. J. reclined his seat and went quickly to sleep. I was near comatose myself, but dragged myself back to the bench along the lake. It did not occur to me to check my line for a fish. Instead, I slept.

* NEXT UP: Part IV -- The Reckoning.

Labels: memoir, story

The Ohio Turnpike is a major thoroughfare, but at one A.M. on a Friday, there's not a lot traffic. There are stretches of highway that are illuminated, but for the most part its a dark tunnel with your headlights and the stars to guide you. Once I-80 separates from the Turnpike, there are no more street lamps, and not a lot of civilization. We had been drinking quite a lot, and I needed to pee.

Mr. J. pulled over, and I marveled at the stars overhead while I urinated. Was I some kind of a rube that this was amazing and shocking to me? We had camped on numerous family vacations, and did I just not look up to pay attention? I think it was, perhaps, the thrill of being on a weird fishing trip and peeing on the side of the road at two in the morning. But those stars, the milky way methinks, were amazing.

Having peed once, I could not suppress the urge, and now every beer I drank was another stop to make. Mr. J. was annoyed, and he stopped drinking in protest. It was for the best, as we were soon in the foothills of Pennsylvania and, having left the expressway, the roads grew narrow and twisted against the landscape.

I had a general sense we were going East, but I had no clue whether we were closer to Erie or Pittsburgh. We kept climbing and twisting, and, looking back, I believe Mr. J. navigated with some innate sense, like salmon swimming upstream. Drunk salmon.

At four in the morning, we pulled off the road and drove along a two-track through the woods. We emerged from the cover into the yard of a two-story home surrounded by trees. I was under distress because we hadn't stopped to pee in quite a while, and once again I had a breathtaking view of the stars while I relieved myself.

We carried the beer inside, where we found a stylish home with all modern conveniences. I had been expecting a crude, bare cabin in the woods. The only thing missing was cable TV. At this hour, in this location, there was no broadcast programming. So we decided to play bumper pool.

I had only played bumper pool once before, and that was in the local Kmart when they made the mistake of putting a table out with sticks and balls while my brothers and I were in the store. It's really not fun, and I think bumper pool only persists because of a mistaken belief perpetuated by advertising funded by special interest groups, like other mistaken beliefs, such as: capitalism is democracy, any sex is good sex, and that Twinkies are food.

At dawn we decided to go fishing. What I couldn't see in the dark was that there was a small lake behind the house, and apparently the lake was stocked with fish. Because we had only unpacked the alcohol, we decided to drive the three hundred feet to the lake.

* NEXT UP: Part III -- We Actually Fish, But Not Really.

Labels: memoir, story

The summer after I graduated from high school, I spent most of my evenings watching softball games at the city park. Unlike a lot of young people hanging out, I was actually watching the softball. I guess I was quiet. And shy. I didn't aggressively seek out adventure. Maybe I should have, but one night, the adventure sought me, instead.

One of my friends, I'll call him Freddie, found me at the softball fields and invited me to go fishing with him. I was probably his second or third choice (Marc would have had a date, and Charles would have been golfing early the next morning) but it fit my schedule just fine.

The plan was to drive during the night to a cottage on a lake in the mountains of Pennsylvania, and be ready to fish that lake early in the morning. It was seven-thirty when I heard all this, so we had a few hours to pack, gather supplies, and pick up his father for the trip. Freddie's father was on the local police force, and his shift ended at midnight. We'd be at the cottage by three A.M.

Freddie picked me up at about nine o'clock, and we first had to track down Melanie V., who had the most reliable fake I.D.. We went to a convenience store (so called convenience because they conveniently didn't wonder why our white friend's Driver's License said she was 34 and black) and bought a case and a half of beer, a pound of baloney, and a loaf of white bread. Oh, and some ice for the beer.

We drove around town to kill time, and picked up Freddie's father (I'll call him Mr. J.) from the police station at midnight. He drove. Our first stop was at the local tavern where Mr. J went in the back door and emerged with what turned out to be a brown paper bag with a fifth of gin, some plastic cups, and a bottle of tonic water.

I was in the back seat with the cooler and the gin. The first order of business was to fix a drink for Mr. J, who was driving, and couldn't be distracted by pouring gin into a cup (safety first!). I immediately revealed my ignorance for pouring too weak of a drink, and for not having purchased lime.

Freddie and I drank Stroh's. I don't remember what we talked about. It was one of the first times I had been around Mr. J, and I really didn't know him as anything other than the three hundred pound cop who happened to be my friend's father. I have to believe we talked about drinking beer. We were seventeen and had a limited view of the world, so talking about drinking beer while drinking beer is par for the course. Besides, I was kept pretty busy refilling Mr. J's cup.

* NEXT UP: Part II -- another of my flaws is revealed.

Labels: memoir, story

Thursday evenings are trash night for me, meaning that I have to gather up trash from around the house and put the trash dumpster out on the curb. Trash is picked up on Friday mornings, and they claim the right to pickup starting at seven a.m., and you don't want to miss it.

In the past, these evenings--"trash night" as I call it--has been a moment of contemplative solitude for me. I am alone and performing an ordinary, rudimentary task, allowing my mind to wander a bit. It is not a form of meditation, but it is calming for me, marking the end of a week. I handle our trash with my hands, and I have a sense of the proportion of our activity. If we have had a party or friends staying for the weekend, there will be more trash than usual. If I have been in the mood to dispose of things (and there is much need for that mood) there will be large bags stuffed with now useless toys or household goods. It helps record in my mind what things have been like for me during the week.

On occasion, I've realized that there was not much in the dumpster, and so I've questioned myself what has happened that the amount of trash is down. I worry that I left the laundry room trash can unchecked, or that maybe there are things lingering in the corner of the garage that perhaps could be discarded.

The most interesting dumpster story happened many years ago, back when my Poobrador, Blue, was still alive (a Poobrador is a Poodle-Labrador mix--my own invented name). I was taking him for a walk late one trash night. I carried two bags of kitchen trash out to the dumpster and then continued on into the night with Blue on a leash.

When we returned, Blue began barking at the dumpster. He would not quiet down, and would not relent. He focused on the dumpster as if he were a drug-sniffing canine, and Scarface himself was in the dumpster.

I began to suspect there might be a rat inside. It was garbage, after all, and rats have to eat something and somewhere. I gathered my courage and flipped open the lid of the dumpster. A raccoon was inside the dumpster, and raised his head and stared at us. Sometime during our walk, he must have gotten inside, drawn by one of the bags. Blue, of course, went berserk.

This week, early in the evening of Trash Night, I noticed that one of our trash bags had been left out next to the garage, and the bag was shredded and our kitchen refuse, egg shells, wrappers, and spoiled food, was now scattered across our lawn. Whoever the culprit, they must have taken the bag with the intention of dropping it in the dumpster, but failed to complete the final three feet of the journey.

I did not rush to clean the mess; instead, I treated it as a crime scene.

My wife had no memory of carrying out a trash bag and leaving it short of its destination. But neither could she account for her whereabouts on Sunday evening which, by my examination of the refuse is when that bag made its way outside (there was a blueberry yogurt container amongst the mess, and I recalled eating blueberry yogurt Sunday morning). The easiest thing would have been for her to blame our son, but she didn't recall asking him to take out the trash.

I next interrogated my son. He claimed to have not taken any trash outside at all in several weeks. I believed him. For him to do anything resembling work, it requires an amount of nagging that makes it impossible to forget, and it is extremely unlikely that he would remove the trash from the kitchen and take it outside without being asked to do so.

Our daughter does not even know where the dumpster sits, such is her lot in life that she does not deal with garbage.

I was suspicious once again of my wife. Is it possible that she took the trash out with good intention, but was distracted in her task and left it in harm's way? I brought her to the scene of the crime, and pointed out in particular the yogurt container that suggested to me that this was trash brought out no earlier than Sunday, and likely no later than Monday (we generate about one bag each day). There was a wrapper from a Nestle Crunch bar, an empty cream cheese container, coffee grounds, apple cores, banana peels, school papers, plastic ware, and scraps of food, all of which scattered in the section of yard next to our garage. Our dogs had had a field day with this, I assumed, but there was the possibility of a raccoon making the mess during the night.

My wife clung to her story of not remembering having taken out the trash and leaving it in the yard. I was forced to let her go. As often happens on Law and Order, I did not have sufficient evidence to press charges. I put on work gloves and picked up the trash, bagging it in a new, fresh pull string bag.

There is, of course, the slim possibility that I left it there, but it is my habit to take trash directly to the dumpster, and not linger or explore. I hate to think I could do such a thing to myself, creating, indirectly a mess that I would have to clean. Truth be told, however, I couldn't account for my whereabouts on Sunday evening either.

Labels: memoir, story

I once went fishing with my father. He wanted to put in at the Portage river, which is west of Sandusky, and try for walleye. It was to be a special day in that he was taking a day off of work, and pulling me out of high school, for the day. It was a bright, warm, spring day.

He was up before dawn to load the boat. I was being lazy, but no more lazy than usual, and didn't do much to help him. But, then, what was I going to do but stand around. He knew where he kept everything, and he knew where he wanted everything, and he only trusted himself to stow items properly in an open boat to be dragged along the highway behind his van.

He was a little upset with himself because we got a late start, but it was before six A.M. so I thought it was fine; he, however, was concerned with the feeding cycles of walleye, and the time it would take to get to the river (90 minutes?) and the extra time required to get to where he wanted to fish.

We drove west, and so dawn broke behind us. I don't remember much of that part of the drive. Being men, we wouldn't have chatted just for the sake of chatting, and my father was stoic with us anyway, and so we were both left to our own fantasies.

If I remember anything of how my thoughts ran at that time, I would have vacillated between doing something heroic to impress the girls I knew (this thought would have been truly sophomoric, but bordering on infantile, like a bad guy comes and threatens one of the girls upon whom I had a crush, and I thwart the bad guy, and then the girl and I reveal our mutual lust for each other) and doing something blatantly lustful, bypassing the need to impress the girl, and going straight for the fun part simply for the sake of fun. Yes, I am pretty sure I had nothing interesting to tell my father at that time.

He could have been worried about several things at that time. My oldest brother was in college. There would have been worries about his success there, the cost of college, and his choice of major. My other brother would soon go to college, and he didn't communicate very well with my father then, so that must have been on his mind at least a little. My father also was very dedicated to his job, and probably was thinking of about one of the many projects he had going. I'm not exactly sure what my father thought about my mother and their marriage; they were probably typical of the era, but they didn't do very many things together like play tennis or go for long, romantic walks; so maybe that worried him, but maybe it didn't.

My father probably didn't know at all what to make of me. I got good grades, but I wasn't as athletic as he probably hoped I'd be; and I was the baby, and treated like a baby, in the family, and was too quick to cry as a child, so maybe he was worried about what sort of man I'd turn out to be.

Maybe he was just worried about the fishing, and the bait, and the lures. At that time, walleye were active in Lake Erie near the Davis Besse nuclear power plant. They would move in and out of the Portage river, and would also feed in the warm waters that discharged from the cooling tower into the lake. Walleye, I've been told, like to feed where they can see, so they prefer gravel bottom waters unsullied by weed and silt and muck; there were geological features in that part of Erie that attracted them.

We passed Sandusky without incident, and crossed the Thomas Edison bridge which spans the Sandusky Bay where it joins Lake Erie. Now we were on the small peninsula that is home to Marblehead and Port Clinton. Just north of us, out on the lake, are Kelly's Island, and the Bass Islands, home of Put-In-Bay. Just west of Port Clinton is the Portage river. (You can see it all here.)

I believe his thoughts probably turned to the specifics of lures and bait. The rage then was to use a variation of the silver spinner called the "Erie Dearie". It came in a variety of colors and sizes. My father's trusted technique was to put a night crawler on the treble hook, but minnows were also a consideration. His long time, personal obsession, however was with Rapala, and he had a large collection. (Rapala are lures shaped like small Norther Pikes, and have hooks along their abdomen.) They were out of fashion here, though, in this part of Lake Erie, and any fisherman worth his two-cycle oil would tell you the same.

My father suddenly let loose an agonized groan. "Did you put the fishing rods in the boat?" he asked. I hadn't. I hadn't done a damn thing. He let loose a series of expletives, certain that he had forgotten. We exited the highway, and pulled into a parking lot in Port Clinton, and he ran to the boat, and confirmed what he knew in his heart to be true: he had forgotten the fishing rods.

The sun had arisen already, and some of the best time had already been squandered. Driving home for the equipment would take far too long. The only hope was that my uncles, his two brothers-in-law, had cottages on the Sandusky Bay just a few minutes from here, and maybe they had equipment, and maybe he could get into those cottages. It was something to try.

He walked around the cottages, probing for an entry point, but they were all locked up. He couldn't even be certain what equipment was there, if any, and what quality it might be, and, more important than anything, what sort of tackle would be available. So he ruled out breaking a window because the payoff was unknown.

Stores would not open for over an hour. Once they did, he would be faced with the dilemma of purchasing equipment he already had, and so he'd want only the cheapest items available, and would be second-guessing himself the entire time as to the quality of the equipment. He was completely crippled by this. We sat in the car and waited.

We waited until the stores opened, and then he did go shopping. This was before the era of WalMart, but there was a small department store there, near the highway entrance. He said that if there was a good sale on decent equipment, we'd buy it and still go fishing. Alas, there was no such sale.

There were sandwiches and drinks in the cooler, and I remember eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the drive home, and washing it down with a Coke.

It was a nice day, and the van got warm on the drive home. It would have been a hot day on the water. If we found fish, my father would have been delighted, and it could have been a great day. It's been said that a bad day fishing is better than a good day at work; but you have to actually fish to feel that way. It was not a good day for my father.

Labels: memoir, mistake

In all those early years of boating with my father, we never had fun with the boats, other than fishing. Fishing is fun for some, but it's boring and smelly and boring for others. Ultimately it's disappointing, too, because you rarely get all the fish you wanted to catch. The boats were a vehicle to transport us to fishing spots.

My father did, however, have a brief flirtation with boats that was strictly for pleasure. Shortly after he bought the cottage on the shores of Sandusky Bay, near Port Clinton, Ohio, he bought a Snark--pardon me, a Sea Snark--which is a small sail boat made out of the same polystyrene used to make coolers. It weighed 30 lbs., offered 45 sq. ft. of sail, and seated one uncomfortably (total capacity of 315 lbs.). It was 11 feet long, and had a 12 inch depth at center, and a 38 inch beam. It cost $299, on sale. I know the details because the Sears catalog entry for it is taped to the desk that my father used at the time he bought it, and I now use that desk.

It was actually a fun little boat. It was propelled by just the slightest whisper of a breeze, which, in fact, was the ideal condition. Being so light, it always seemed on the verge of capsizing, so we preferred quiet, calm times on the bay. The catalog picture shows a grown man sitting upright under full sail, but we could never achieve the dexterity for sitting; instead, we lay back flat and propped our heads with an orange life preserver in order to see.

This was just an appetizer for my father. After his retirement, he and my mother wintered in Tarpon Springs, Florida at a campground with access to a lake (Lake Tarpon?). There was a sailing club there and, sure as shit, Alfred bought a small sailboat. He dragged it to the lake nearly every day for a while, and gained a modicum of mastery over the techniques required. There were weekly races at the lake, and he entered once, failing to win, but satisfied that he completed the course.

Naturally, he was smitten by the idea of sailing. He owned a cottage on a bay and he was retired--it seemed to be a great idea. So he bought a second sail boat and towed it north with him in the spring. (He thought that would be simpler than dragging one boat back and forth across America.) But things did not go as he hoped.

There were a few minor mechanical problems with that boat--that was why he got it so cheaply. However, fixing those problems became just another item on his to-do list, and the to-do list grew long quickly. He had his main residence to care for, the cottage, his big fishing boat that needed attention, and the collection of smaller boats and outboard motors. The cottage was (and still is) susceptible to flooding, so periodically he spent the better part of a Saturday mopping and disinfecting.

That small sailboat has never gotten wet north of the Mason-Dixon line. It sits, to this day, in the garage, piled with the flotsam and jetsam from other projects.

My brothers and I bring up the question of what to do with the sailboat periodically. I like the idea of using it, as those brief moments on the Snark were peaceful and enjoyable. I am tempted by the allure of being out on a body of water, feeling like I am a part of nature. To sit out on open water, comfortably, confident of your ability to return to dry land, offers a form of solitude that is only equaled (I'm guessing) by ballooning or soaring. I think even boating with companions you get a shared sense of solitude (don't laugh, it's real) for all those on board.

Alas, the small sailboat still sits. We have inherited from our father a particularly pragmatic outlook on life that, I am coming to understand, inhibits certain forms of joy. We rarely did things just for the sake of having fun. The sports we played were turned into exercises to improve ourselves. The camping and fishing trips had their moments, but there was a discipline imposed to ensure duties and chores were performed. I don't think I ever really learned how to have fun, and now I'm afraid to allow myself to have fun like that. It seems foreign to me.

All of that is frustrated by the responsibilities of life. Debts pile up, careers seem questionable, and so it becomes more difficult to allow oneself to just have fun. I stare at the catalog picture of the healthy man sitting in the Snark on a pleasant body of water, seemingly enjoying himself, and wonder, "How did he learn to do that?"

I think I'd be a good candidate for having fun. I should put on my to-do list, "Learn to Have Fun"; I should put it right after "Stop Living Vicariously."

Maybe I'll drop that sailboat in the water this summer and see what happens. Maybe, if I don't drown, I'll learn something and have fun while I do it.

Labels: memoir, mistake

Or better still, what's behind a name? I have had a nickname that has been with me for quite a while. It's not a bad one, but lingers as an acronym of the original, so when an old friend mentions it in front of a new friend, it has to be explained. It's difficult to impart the full emotions that made the nickname attractive when given, and often the use of the nickname picks up additional meanings that have nothing to do with its origin; it takes on a life of its own.

Nickname The First
My first nickname, bestowed by my brother's friend, was "Cork". It was because, from behind, my husky build made we seem wide. This was not a nickname of grace or admiration. I assume it referred to an upside down cork, wider at the bottom. That name lasted through junior high.

Worse Than The First
In ninth grade, I made the junior varsity baseball team. I was not a great player, but I wasn't bad. I was proud to be on the team. One weekend, we had a tournament on Saturday after a Friday afternoon game. My mother worked late on Fridays, so I washed my uniform myself. I made the mistake of washing it with a pair of red shorts, and my white uniform turned pink.

I washed that uniform four more times that night, but I could not remove the pink. The next day, I was called "Pinkie". What could I say to deny that?

The One That Stuck
That same baseball season, we were playing at Cuyahoga Heights. They were something of an arch rival, and it was a game we all wanted to win. The field itself was memorable because it was in a stand of trees and had a very remote feel to it. No roads or building could be seen from the field, but an active train track ran along one side—it was possible to hit a foul ball on a passing train and never, ever see that baseball again.

I was not having a great day at the plate. I hit the ball in each of five at bats, but I hit four ground balls to the short stop, reaching first only once on what was ruled (unfairly) an error. On my fifth at bat ( a lot of at bats, by the way, for a seven inning game) I drilled a beautiful line drive into right field. The right fielder caught it on the first hop, and threw me out at first base. I had just barely left the batter's box when the umpire raised his fist.

Our lone fan, Larry Lowther, had a great chuckle at this. Larry, father of our shortstop Marc, was at all of our games, and was a well-liked man. So when he took a break from his laughter to shout, "Hey, Mick the Quick!" it was heard by all and with regard. Henceforth, I was known as Mick the Quick.

It was a far better name than "Pinkie", so, in a sense I am grateful. It is worth noting that the player who called me Pinkie that Saturday morning was none other than Larry's son Marc. A couple of funny guys if ever there were.

Labels: memoir

My efforts with Total Immersion swimming are slowly paying off. The number of strokes it takes to go 50 yards is down by half, and I can actually feel the thrust, with little effort, when I get the mechanics correctly. People are still a little curious why I'm doing this now, at my age, and how it is I never learned to swim properly before if I had the interest. So a little background.

The Jungle That Is Our Youth

There were a few boys my age that were physical specimens starting in sixth grade. Their testosterone came early, or there was something in the water on their street, that gave them manly features while I still sported a pudgy belly and a double-chin. I ate a lot, and a lot of ice cream to boot, so I understood why I was the way I was. But two boys in particular, Terry B. and Danny V., had muscle definition and a chiseled physique. They were ripped. And it wasn't just being skinny, but there was muscle development.

One day in sixth grade, there was rain and so our recess was held downstairs, in the basement, and it was a crowded, raucous affair. At some point, Terry B. got a hold of an empty masking tape roll (i.e., just the cardboard ring) and slid that up his arm until it was snug on his bicep. He then flexed his muscle until that cardboard ring tore open. I was astounded. To this day I'm astounded.

Swimming with Sharks

The city pool was in the park directly behind our house, less than two hundred paces from our fence. We heard the shouts and screams of kids splashing in the water every day in summer. My mother was nervous about us venturing there, but we did go, and without ever taking a lesson, I could navigate the water fairly well. I stayed in the shallow end, but I could swim underwater, and was very comfortable, and splashed and played with the roughest of them.

There was a boy a year older than me, Jeff W., who had the same chiseled physique as the two my own age. He was something of a prick, and had a reputation for being tough, and so I generally avoided him. I was there, in the shallow end, with him one day in summer.

I was swimming under water, and apparently kicked him as I passed. When I came up for air, he jammed my head back under, and I took in a great gulp of water into my lungs. I still recall the feeling of panic vividly, and how I gripped at the edge desperately as I coughed it out.

I coughed and coughed until I spit blood. He was a little concerned, but mostly about what might happen to him. The life guard had him sit out of the pool until after the next Adult Swim. I made my way back home, shaken and unnerved.

The Best Revenge is Living Well

I did not return to that pool for five years, until I had learned to swim with my head above water. I don't like any kind of horseplay in the water, and I panic quickly as I lose air, or if water goes up my nose or in my mouth. I'm kind of a wreck.

But I am now, finally, gaining a bit more ease in the water. Breathing is my biggest problem.

You'd think I could have overcome all of this earlier, and without so much internal drama, but that is a kind of metaphor for my entire life. I'm trying to be a late bloomer, before it's all too late.

Oh, and that Jeff W. guy? Well, if he tries to befriend me on Facebook, I'm going to ignore it. So there.

Labels: memoir, personal growth, story

I never got around to telling this story about the cabbage rolls and my father's intestines. As I've said earlier, for family events, my mother would prepare cabbage rolls by the dozen. It was usually a major production for her, but she never asked for help. She prepared it all herself, creating dozens of them at a time.

Great big bowls of ground meat were mixed with rice and paprika. A large pot boiled heads of cabbage to loosen the leaves. And an over-sized roaster sat waiting to accept the cabbage rolls. She usually do all of this in our basement, where we had a second kitchen. She'd descend for an afternoon or evening, and not surface again until it was complete.

I don't recall the specific occasion, but my father felt ill late at night, after the event. The next day he checked himself into a hospital. Back in those days, if you got into the hospital, they kept you a while to run tests. Now you spend far more time waiting in the Emergency Room lobby than you do in a hospital bed (if you're lucky), but back then, they admitted you to run tests, and strictly enforced the visiting room hours.

He was in there a couple of days, having complained about chest pains. He was in his late forties, so the assumption was a heart attack, and that's what the tests were trying to determine. But test after test came back negative, and so they reviewed other factors. The truth finally came out that he had consumed an inordinate amount of cabbage rolls; the doctor immediately went with a diagnosis of indigestion. He probably prescribed an enema, but I don't know if it was ever administered.

I never really worked with my mother on those cabbage rolls, and I don't know if I have the recipe, so I'll be trying various combinations until I hit on something pleasing to my taste buds and my memory. I just hope I don't kill myself trying.

Labels: memoir, story

I am staging my return to blogging with a presentation of old Xmas letters. Back in 1996, we sent these short missives out with the Christmas cards, and I tried to be funny. Now, re-reading them, they are painfully moronic. My sign off messages are particularly sad. I think the author was an idiot.

Still, they were very popular with friends and family, and so I was encouraged to continue. I still write them, and will post them all for posterity sake. Perhaps some young family will read them some day and decide not to write any such Xmas letter of their own.

My style has changed over the years, and, once I have them all online, a careful reader may detect a particularly bad year. It was something of a bellwether for the writing.

Xmas Letters Part 1: The Idiot Years.

Labels: memoir, mistake

I had a nostalgic moment. I seem to have a lot of those, but this one was classic, or, rather, in the classical sense of nostalgia.

I play the accordion. I'm not very good at it, have only been playing for a little more than three years, and there's a lot to learn. I stopped taking lessons this year because it was just too traumatic to get to the lessons on time with the other demands on my time. I really thought I'd be better at studying on my own, and I have, but now I miss learning new things, other than the songs. So I began searching for books on how to play the accordion.

I've already bought most of the books on the subject, and there's quite a few at the beginner's end of the scale, a couple at the very highest end, but next to nothing in between. There are intermediate song books, but no explanation on how to play those songs.

I kept searching. Depending on the phrasing used, I'd get most of the same old stuff, or some links to what seemed to be very expensive DVD-based lessons of various styles. Today I stumbled on the right combination of search terms, and discovered a review of "Fingering the Accordion" by Robert L. Smith. I immediately ordered it.

Here's the interesting part: it seems to be self-published, and the only contact information was a name and address posted on the reviewer's web page. I did specific searches of the title and the author, thinking I could order it on Amazon.com, or eBay, or Half.com, or alibris.com, but there were no other traces of the book on the internet. Spooky, right?

I doubted the veracity only for an instant. I wrote out the check. addressed the envelope, and wrote a note by hand to explain my interest in the book. That was the cool part for me, writing a note and ordering something with a letter.

In fifth grade, our teacher (Mrs. Perkins) put us through some exercises in Social Studies wherein we would write letters to our Congressman, Senator, and the President to see what we would get back. It was a lot of fun, and, sure as hell, we got neatly typed letters in return on some serious weight stock.

I also was a big proponent of ordering dumb-ass things out of the back of comic books, or from cereal boxes. My greatest acquisition was probably a Quisp ray gun that actually shot a cloud of talcum powder, but looked really cool, or the Cap'n Crunch milkshake set, or maybe the Willie Wonka chocolate factory kit. Each of those involved the envelope, a small amount of money, and writing a letter to explain things, as my teacher taught me, to ensure it'd arrive safely, rather than relying on those tiny little order forms.

I got a real kick out of writing a letter, explaining what I wanted, and stuffing that into an envelope. In three days, the letter will arrive in California, and Mr. Smith will rip it open, see my check, and begin his order fulfillment process. Perhaps in ten days, I will have his book on accordion fingering techniques in my hands.

Because Mr. Smith does not have a web presence, it seemes doubtful that he is egomaniacal enough to constantly google himself. If he did, he might see this blog entry before my letter arrives, and so he might have my order prepared and just waiting for the check to arrive.

Labels: memoir

In many ways, our kids have it easier than we did, but that also complicates other aspects of their lives. It's easier because we live in a house with two and a half bathrooms, so the fighting is over which hair appliance is plugged in, and who left the cap off of the teeth-whitening toothpaste. They are stressed out in the morning because they can't decide what to wear, and that's because they have so many choices. I had five shirts for school, and two pair of pants, and so it was very straightforward. My mother probably had one dress and one skirt and two shirts.

For breakfast, they might debate whether to have a bagel with cream cheese or sweetened cereal. They definitely fight over who gets to control the digital video recorder remote control.

All of the luxuries come with a price. We all get too little sleep, so the kids are up late, distracted during the evening by television, internet games, and cell-phone shenanigans. The cartoons they do watch are mind-abusing, heavy on ironic social commentary and adult-themed humor (why cartoons ever left the tried, true, and trusted format of physical violence is a mystery to me).

They also must remember to plug in their cell phone.

A very real problem they have to deal with is over-loaded backpacks. Every teacher demands that they have a binder for them, and so they must fit ten pounds of school stuff into a five pound backpack. All the binders can't fit in their locker, either, so there's a constant struggle to tote and find the right material.

The one bright spot is that the backpacks are so full, there's no room for alcohol, tobacco, or firearms. It's an insidiously brilliant approach to keeping the kids on the straight and narrow.

There has been some saber-rattling lately about the end of affluence, as future generations will not enjoy the same standard of living as we did. I believe the lifestyles will become increasingly casual regardless of the income available. It's not like people will revert to toting water from the village well to bathe themselves twice a year (whether they need it or not). Future generations may not be able to afford digital cable, broadband internet, and new car payments, so I think people will drive used cars, and leach off of their neighbors for wireless internet to find pirated television shows.

I'm not saying that it will be a better life. They may be doomed to struggle hopelessly to recreate this golden age of wastefulness in which we are living, and it may be impossible to achieve the level of unbalanced affluence that Americans now enjoy. But it won't be third-worldish, either. They will find love and ways to be happy. They may even take advantage of the nascent health movement, and actually lead simpler, healthier lives than we do today.

Think of it: in a world with less pressure to acquire useless goods, we might sit at home in the evening with our spouse and talk and laugh over a quiet meal of healthy food. We might turn in early, every day, to make love in a warm bed. And when we have children, we might raise them with a villager's attitude of providing for their needs, watching them grow, and imparting to them the values of love, cooperation, and respect.

In the morning, we would all awaken with the sun, rested and impatient for the new day to begin.

Labels: memoir

When I was a kid, we had a fairly rigid morning routine. The house was small, and my brothers and I slept in the (finished) attic. There was only a single bathroom, but in later years my father built a shower in the basement near the drain, but we were a bath-at-night family during the early years. In the morning we would dress, wait our turn at the toilet, and eat a bowl of cereal.

My mother would have been awake for at least on hour before we were up. A banker, she would dress nicely for work. She was usually not ready, though, when we got up. She would be part of the way there, but usually was wearing a house coat (a fancy robe) and had curlers in her hair.

Mom would put the cereal on the kitchen table and make us lunch. For cereal, we usually had a choice of Rice Krispies or Cheerios. Occasionally we were spoiled with Captain Crunch, Lucky Charms, Fruit Loops, or Coco Puffs. (During the Quake and Quisp years, we were a Quake house.) Come to think of it, we usually had Cap'n Crunch, and only were without sweetened cereals when my father went on a health rampage, declaring the extra sugar evil.

Mom made balogna sandwiches for lunch. Two slices of Wonder Bread, two slices of bologna, and two swipes of mustard. Occasionaly we were treated with some potato chips, but usually not. We got a quarter for milk, which could buy a few milks and some pretzel rods. I splurged for chocolate milks, feeling the extra penny was worth it.

We had about a half-mile walk to the elementary school, so we were out the door by 7:30 am. I know we watched cartoons in the morning, so we were probably up by 6:30 am most days, to give us that extra time to watch TV.

This brief remembrance may make it sound quiet and lovely, but I know it was tense and stressful most days. We lived in a small house, so there was very little room for book bags, musical instruments, and projects. Things were left on the stairs to our room, but things were also misplaced, covered up, and lost. There was yelling to keep us moving, and fighting over which lousy TV show to watch.

I was prone to anxiety attacks, and freaked out about little things, and sometimes my mother would drive me just to get me to shut up about being late.

Still, one memory sticks out. It was winter, and the furnace was slow to warm the house. So my mother had the gas stove going full blast, and left the door open to warm the kitchen. It was, to her, the equivalent of her own childhood, during the depression, during which they would not burn coal in the furnace because they couldn't afford it. She would get up in the mornings, sometimes with frost in her room, kept warm by the shared heat of her sisters, with whom she slept.

They would dress in the freezing cold, and then run to the kitchen to find the heat. Once there, her father would toast bread in the oven. Thus they would start their day.

In part two, I'll describe our current equivalents, and explain how this generation so is much weaker than mine, and how my generation was weaker than my parents'.

Labels: memoir

Shortly before leaving for college, I went to a party at my friend's house. It was an odd time because many of us were about to leave town and start new lives. There was an anxious energy about, at least for me there was.

The party was much like the others we'd had that summer, involving a few drinks, maybe watching television, and talking about girls. It went until quite late at night, and Eddie got very antsy and wanted to go for a walk. This was three in the morning. I went with him.

It was a calm night, and warmer than normal. We walked through residential streets and across our city park and past the municipal building where the police station was. We were probably the most dangerous things on the street, so there were no worries about that. We talked mostly about the girls we knew and liked (and which I was too shy to approach) and what college might offer us. I was very hopeful that the fresh beginning would bring me an interesting social life.

Eddie was prematurely nostalgic for the world he was about to leave. So much so that he wanted a souvenir from our home town. At around three-thirty in the morning, he decided that he really wanted a road sign to hang in his dormitory. We made our way back to the party, but with a renewed interest in the signs along the way. Eddie was basically shopping.

Back at the party, we announced our grand design to those still awake, borrowed some tools, and returned to the streets.

A street sign was the first choice, but it was mounted too high to reach. Nearby was a Stop sign; we could reach the nuts and bolts holding it in place, and realized that it was really a much better choice than the street sign.

The nuts proved very stubborn. In fact, we couldn't budge them one single bit. Perhaps it was the fact that it was past our bed time, or that we were somewhat inebriated, but struggle though we might, the sign was not coming free from its mounting.

Eddie was frustrated. He really liked the idea of the souvenir, and refused to surrender it. He thought perhaps we could pull the post from the ground, and we tried that, nearly soiling our pants with exertion.

Near desperation, Eddie began to rock the sign back and forth, hoping to loosen it where it was planted. He leaned against it, then pulled, back and forth, over and over again. Once more we tried to lift it from the ground, but the earth would not release its grip on it.

Eddie tried once again pushing and pulling. He was voicing his frustration at this point, and about to surrender, pulled back on the sign so that he was almost flat on the ground. He released his grip and the sign snapped forward like the lever of a catapult. Eddie also sprung up, so as not to fall backwards, and took a step forward.

The sign's forward movement was halted by the same forces that had frustrated us so many times already, and pushed it back with nearly the same energy it had on its flight forward. This time its movement was halted when the sign smashed into Eddie's face. Mind you, this all happened in less than a second, the pull, release, snap backward into Eddie's step forward, and then bang, smack in the forehead like something out of a Three Stooges movie.

Eddie was knocked flat to the ground into the street. Luckily, his skull had not been broken by either the sign or the pavement. He did, however, have the distinct imprint of a hex nut in his forehead, just above his nose.

Dazed, we returned to the party. We had failed on our quest, but learned a valuable lesson.

Labels: memoir

My son is not big on projects. It is not the way he learns, and he hates the idea of them. For the most part I agree with him, but it's something that has to get done.

My son is big on talking, watching television, and arguing. He especially likes arguing about what's on television, especially when he can use the DVR to prove a point through the miracle of pause and slow-motion. These things don't help get a project done.

Labels: memoir, story

My father bought one brand new vehicle during my childhood. It was a 1976 Ford Econoline van burnt orange, and void of any accessories or options. It was bare metal inside, and came with the absolute minimum of two seats. His dream was to customize that van for a trip we took as a family to Yellowstone National Park. This was the age of customized vans. He was not attempting to put wall to wall shag carpeting and a water bed in the back so that he could score some serious tail (as far as I know); he was trying to make more of a recreational vehicle that would sleep a family of five.

My father was an engineer, designed things, and took the van customization very seriously. He spent weeks sketching out his ideas, to scale, on graph paper. His optimal design called for a bed across the back that could be expanded, two captians chairs in front, and a bench along one side that would convert to a mini-kitchen. There were storage cubbies everywhere. He also planned to install an AM/FM stereo with eight track tape deck and six speakers and a citizen's band radio.

Dad was also a bit paranoid--perhaps rightfully so given his upbringing--so the very first thing he installed was a kill switch disguised as a headphone jack. I suppose there were people that would steal an unfinished, oddly colored van. The next thing he did was have Sears install an after market cruise control. The switch was attached to the turn signal, as they are today, but this one stuck out like a sore thumb, and had wires hanging from it. It was novel and cool to me, though.

The deadline for the trip approached far too quickly, and the only customizations my father accomplished was the wooden frame for the bed, the captains chairs up front, and the new stereo. I think that is how much of life goes, with grand plans going wildly astray, and coming up short. But we took the trip, and rode in that van.

Mom and Dad sat up front, and my brothers and I either shared the bed in back, or sat on a lawn chair resting in the middle. I don't believe there was anything like a seat belt in that van. It was bare metal, unfinished lumber, and us. If there had been an accident, my brothers and I would have been thrown forward in free fall, waving our arms as we screamed in terror before splattering our brains on the dashboard. Those were the good old days for travel on our nation's highways.

During that first trip, we broke down in Omaha, Nebraska, and the transmission had to be repaired, and we all learned to hate Omaha. Our intention was to sleep in a tent in Yellowstone, but often, because of bear warnings, we had to pile into the van, and there we shivered in cold, uncomfortable, cramped quarters.

All of this is leading up to my very worst memory of that van. A few years later, I was riding with him in the van on a hot summer day. I was sixteen or seventeen at the time, and, for whatever reason, I didn't really want to be there with him, in that van, doing whatever we were doing. I was sitting on the cooler in back (we came to keep a Coleman cooler in the van for extra seating) when the van overheated and my Dad pulled it over.

He popped the hood and steam was escaping from the radiator cap. He decided to allow that pressure to escape, and he loosened the cap. It exploded in a burst of steam, scalding his face, eyes, hands, and arms. He backed away in pain, groaning and waving about anxiously.

I was bored by the whole episode, and I had already planted my ass in the lawn chair in the shade nearby to watch the proceedings. I could see he was in pain, but being a selfish, stupid teenager, I did nothing and hardly cared. Dad stood for a confused moment, not sure what he should do to help himself, and looked at me.

I said, "There's some ice in the cooler if you want it." But I didn't get up to help him, or ask about his injuries, or much of anything. As I said, I was a stupid, selfish teenager.

My son is fourteen now. I think I'm due to get a taste of my own medicine.

Labels: memoir, mistake, story

I have never been a big fan of shaving, but I do like the feeling of smooth skin that results from it, so I take care to do it properly. But the act of shaving also exposes some of my fits and follies, and a secret affectation.

My mother told stories of how her father shaved, which was with a straight razor he sharpened with a strop. The shaving stories were always an off-shoot of a discipline story, in that he used the strop to beat the children when they were naughty. A strop, if you don't know it, is a huge leather belt used to sharpen a straight razor by repeatedly stroking it with the razor. It's also useful for beating the hell out of someone naughty, or so I'm told. I had this image of a cranky Eastern European guy, in his tank-top T-shirt, working that razor with his face lathered up. From early on, I fantasized about shaving that way.

I am something of a romantic about literary things, and, like so many people, I really fell in love with The Catcher in the Rye when I read it back in high school. That Salinger guy is a heckuva a writer. I mean I read quite a bit, and that guy is really goddam great writer. He knocked my socks off, if you know what I mean. He talks a little bit about shaving in that, but mostly it lead me to read Franny and Zooey, also by Salinger. In that book, there is a lengthy scene about shaving that I fell in love with. Lane spends, like, a lifetime in his bathroom, taking a bath, reading a letter, and shaving. He shaves three times, I swear to God he does, but it was how he shaved that killed me. He squeezed shaving cream out of a tube onto a brush, and then applied it to his face. That killed me. I swear to God, if you ever read about someone shaving with a tube, a brush, and an injection razor system, it'll goddam near kill you.

So I bought myself a shaving brush the first chance I got. I even bought a travel version so I could take it with me. For whatever reason, call it lack of faith or even plain old stupidity, I stopped using it. Biggest mistake of my life (well, one of the biggest). For the twenty years since, I have been thrashing about trying to find the combination of shaving cream and razor that gives me what I want. I was unhappy for a very long time, but now, I believe I'm happy at last.

My father used electric razors. I have tried those a few times, but never liked how it felt afterwards. There is a downy softness to my skin, and that never excited me. Applying lotion afterwards helped a little. Still, it wasn't right for me.

I whored around a bit with cheap Bic disposables. They were effective, but I cared so little for them that I stopped caring about the quality of the shave. It began to eat away at my soul.

When the Gillette Mach 2 razor came out, I was skeptical. I sneered at those who would spend more than a quarter on a razor. I used mine for upwards of two weeks, spending about nine dollars per year on razors, and two cans of Colgate cream. How big of an idiot was I to spend a grand total of $12 a year on my face?

The sneaky bastards sent me a complimentary Mach 2 razor in the mail. I tried it and loved it. It was like discovering the funniest TV show ever, but in syndication, which means you get to watch it everyday, over and over again.

I have upgraded the razors as they have introduced new models, and each time I have been amazed by how it really does feel better. After ten years, how can this love of mine keep surprising me? I don't know, but it makes me love it that much more.

The one problem is that the tightly set razors often get clocked with the whiskers and shaving cream. Not only does it look messy, but it degrades the shave. So I spend a lot of time rinsing. It annoys me, but, like loving a great woman, you have to take the bad with the good. I have tried many different creams. Noxema is the worst: it seems to bind like super-glue between the blades. Gillette is a little better, but builds up and won't rinse off. Colgate, the cheapest stuff on the shelf, is probably the best for not sticking to the razor, but I don't like the feel of it.

On a nostalgic whim, I bought a soap cake and brush kit. I immediately loved the result. It was fun as hell applying the shaving cream with the brush, and I can control the density of the foam by adjusting the water I use. It rinses clean from the razor, and I get the satisfaction of recapturing a small part of americana every morning. My smooth cheeks remind me of it in the morning, and in the evening I begin to look forward to my next shave when my stubble starts to come in.

Labels: memoir, mistake, personal growth

I have just added a new article: Me TV. It's a memoir-ish account of the television shows I watched in my youth, and is really a testament to the great wasteland that is my mind. If I had spent half the time I spent watching TV just walking around, I might have never had a weight problem.

One little tidbit I left out is that during some of the family TV time, my father and I would watch The Rockford Files, which is an hour-long show. He'd stop at Uncle Bill's on his way home (Uncle Bill's was a bottom-feeding discount store, back before there were stores such as "Big Lots") and pick up a half gallon of Whoppers, those delicious malted milk balls. We would plow through the entire carton during the show, after dinner. It seemed a little bit like dessert, but was not a great thing for me to do.

So I've had this weird relationship with food and television all of my life. I've loved both of them far too much, and for the wrong reasons, and without any conscious thought as to whether or not it helped me, made me stronger, smarter, or faster in any way. I just liked those things, enjoyed them, and squandered the better part of my life away because of it.

Granted, it wasn't as bad as alcoholism, or drug addiction, or gambling away all my possessions. Instead it was a slow decline into obesity, and time wasted that I could have been learning something, building a business, or improving the world. I wonder if I can do any of those good things now, ever.

That seems to be behind me now. I just don't have as much time to watch television anymore, in spite of how much I love it. About half the time that I do, I do so on a treadmill exercising as I go.

To be honest, though, I would like to just sit some time and plow through a carton of chocolate covered malt balls.

Labels: memoir, mistake, personal growth, toastmaster

One of the few times my father towed that big, 26' boat, we had a collision. We were taking the boat from his cottage in Port Clinton to the marina in Marblehead. At the time, he was having problems with the wiring harness and the supplemental brakes on the trailer weren't working. It would have taken a few days to get all that corrected, so he, being a former jet pilot, discounted the risks greatly, and decided to drag the boat to its new home.

Port Clinton is mostly a single strip of action that runs along the southern shoreline of Lake Erie between Toledo and Sandusky, but much closer to Sandusky. There is an older downtown region, but most of the action is along that main strip where motels, taverns, and restaurants attract a rowdy crowd in the summer -- the sort of folks that are getting warmed up before some fun on the lake, or even greater rowdiness on the islands.

In the town proper, there are tree lined streets, carefully laid out in straight lines and filled with small bungalows and ranch houses. The town regulars who stay there year round, and generally are an all-right bunch of people. My father decided to drive through the residential streets so as to avoid the nervous police on the strip, and thereby avoid possible questions of his street worthy trailer.

He had a little trouble stopping because of weight and the lack of braking assistance, so he cruised through the neighborhoods very slowly, approaching the stop signs cautiously, and looking carefully. If no one was coming, he would roll through the intersection and begin looking ahead for the next challenge.

At one such intersection, there were no cars approaching. My father did not notice a girl on a bicycle but even if he did, he may not have stopped for her. He rolled through the intersection.

I was in the passenger seat, and the girl was coming towards me. As we pulled out into her path, she looked with some concern at us, but seemed to calculate that we wouldn't collide. However, she had not seen the boat behind us, and as she approached, the boat on its trailer rolled in front of her.

I leaned out the window to watch, and heard her exclaim: "I have no brakes." Because she was next to the curb, she felt she had no where to turn, and instead she plowed into the boat, face first, and fell off of the bike and into the street.

I told my father of the situation, and he did finally bring the van to a halt. But he did not get entangled. The girl had picked herself up by the time my father approached her on foot. The moment she said she was fine, he returned to the driver's seat, and we resumed our slow-motion journey.

As we drove away, I watched as the girl picked up her bike, and tried to straighten the handlebars so that she might ride it again.

Labels: memoir

My father was lucky enough to retire early, at the age of 62. He decided to buy a fishing boat capable of braving Lake Erie in almost any weather. If you've never heard, Lake Erie is really shallow (210 feet maximum depth) and is therefore particularly vulnerable to the wind, and churns up into white caps at the mere suggestion of a breeze, much like the the French surrender at the first hint of hostility.

So my father bought a 26' aluminum boat. I forget the make, but it was designed for fishing with an open deck, and only a small area enclosed in the bow. The comfort features were minimal, and it came with outrigging stuff, radar, fish finder, and other gadgets. Because it was aluminum, it was still light enough for him to tow with his van, and he believed he could handle launching it by himself. He was wrong.

My mother was still deathly afraid of the water, and would not go for a ride, so she was useless to him for handling this boat.

He rented a slip at a local marina, and intended on fishing a lot. I don't believe he ever put a line in the water from that boat. On its maiden voyage, with my brother and my brother's fiance on board, the engine quit. The radio turned out not to work, and so they fired a flare in distress. My brother aimed the flare gun straight up, pulled the trigger, and watched as the flare rose up high, and returned to earth, nearly hitting the boat. It splashed down and fizzled in the green, algae reeking waters of Erie just a few feet from the boat.

As they awaited help, my father realized that they did not have the adequate safety gear on board, namely life preservers for all passengers. So it was decided that my brother's fiance would hide under the bow when the Coast Guard arrived.

The wind picked up, the waves grew heavy, and the boat began to pitch violently. My brother's fiance grew sea sick, but she was forced to crawl into the tiny, cramped, and stuffy "cabin".

My father had been trying to troubleshoot the problem with the engine, and decided it was an electrical problem around the distribution cap and the spark plug wires (it was a V-6 engine with a Sterndrive). As the Coast Guard approached, he found his largest lead sinker and used it to close a break in the electrical system. The engine started.

The Coast Guard verified that everything was fine, and allowed them to leave without inspection. They made a bee-line for home, not wanting to tempt fate further.

The next week, with the engine repaired, my father attempted another voyage, this time with my other brother. They made their way along the Portage river towards Lake Erie. It was a warm morning, the sun shone brightly, and numerous boats were making the same journey. As they neared the Lake, the Sterndrive made a strange, higher-pitched noise, and the boat stopped moving forward. My father moved it into neutral, back into drive, then reverse -- still the strange noise and no motion. He lifted the Sterndrive out of the water, and ordered my brother to the stern to look.

"The propeller fell off," was the official report.

My father was, at that time, not a particularly calm or easy-going person. He had a temper, was prone to anger, and had learned numerous colorful expressions for communicating that anger. There was very little that was right with the world when he was angry. This was one of those times.

They were towed back to the marina by a helpful, albeit amused boater.

I went along next to help get the boat out of the water so that it could be taken for repair. My father brought his twelve foot aluminum with the small outboard motor, and we launched that craft and crossed the marina. My father commanded what was now a tug boat, and I was stationed in the crippled vessel, monitoring the rope tied to the bow cleat.

This was late on this particular day, once again warm, and mostly calm. My father was quiet and sombered as he towed the boat back across the marina. He was somewhat anxious because, near the end, to get this much larger boat close to the ramp, we were going to be juggling boats and pulling rope, but, at the moment, it was a nice little trip. I sat on the bow, enjoying the sun and the relative calm.

We had to brave a stretch of open water, exposed to a breeze and other traffic, and it was at that moment that the small outboard motor on our tug boat quit. My father worked methodically to restart the motor, pulling on the rope, adjusting the choke and the throttle, and pulling again.

The breeze picked up. Because the large boat was made of aluminum, it sat high on the water, and became, essentially, its own sail. We were pushed across the open expanse as my father struggled to restart the motor. My quiet, calm tour was clearly at an end as the boat was being pushed closer to a stone breakwall at the far end of the water. Being the senior officer on deck, I readied myself to either abandon ship, or to leap onto the stone breakwall just moments before the wreck, and try to prevent severe damage. I was going to take my cue from the tone and intensity of the vulgarities now streaming from my father's mouth. Although, looking back, I really didn't know how I could have justified not sacrificing my body to save his boat. But I really didn't want to do it.

I was saved from this fate at nearly the last moment when the small outboard motor started, and the tension in the rope returned, and we once again approached the cement boat ramp.

That big, aluminum fishing boat was taken from the water, never to return. It was repaired, but my father had lost the precious and very necessary belief that the effort involved in boating was going to be worth it. He parked it at his cottage, and it remained there for the next six years while he slowly died, and for three more years after that as we, his sons, decided what to do with it.

The last time I was on that boat, I was busy cleaning out the dirt and destruction left by a family of raccoons that had taken up residence the previous year. There was feces in every crevice, and all soft materials had been shredded. As an added bonus, three separate yellow jacket nests also had to be removed.

Lake Erie is arguably one of the most deadly bodies of water on earth, with a wreckage rate per square mile of its surface that puts it in the company of the most lethal and damning places on earth, at least for boats. It had stopped my father before he ever started, and perhaps that was a lucky thing, although, if he'd known the manner of his death, he might just have taken his chances out on the water.

We decided that the boat was beyond our abilities to repair, and donated it to charity, taking the tax deduction on our mother's tax return. If only there was something pithy to say about all of it, but, alas, I can think of nothing.

Labels: memoir

In the late seventies, my father made his next move in boat ownership and bought a used, aluminum Duo with an outboard motor and a trailer. I was there when the purchase was made, and to my immature mind, it had all the trappings of a clandestine and somewhat illegal purchase: we met a gentleman at the edge of a parking lot where the boat had been parked one evening. The nearest road was deserted, and the light thrown from the street lamps offered shadow and false colors. My dad handed the man a wad of cash, and the man assisted us in getting it attached to our hitch. The boat was named "APE".

There were problems from the start. My father was suspicious of the power offered by the Johnson 25 horse, and so he immediately acquired an Evinrude 35 horse (I may have those reversed, but the point is that when you buy something like a boat, add-ons and upgrades are inevitable). He also took it to a specialty shop to have a canvas cover made. Changing the outboard revealed problems in the pulleys that were attached to the steering wheel, and so another day was lost to anger and effort.

In spite of these things, it felt like a real boat. It had a closed bow, and my brother and I were still small enough to crawl underneath amongst the extra life preservers. We imagined sleeping there on our long voyages (but never did). There was a windshield and steering wheel and levers for the throttle and gear shift (forward, neutral, and reverse). There were four seats and a floor rather than the benches and exposed hull of the rowboat.

I believe my brothers and I had more fun sitting in the boat parked in our backyard than we did on the water.

But in the water it went. We lived in Cleveland and that little boat took us out onto Lake Erie. I remember one trip in particular when we were far afield, looking for walleye near the Portage river, and a storm rolled in quickly from the west, black clouds low, and a sharp cold breeze its only warning. What saved was that the storm pushed us back to the harbor where we needed to go, but the four-foot, white-capped waves made it a ride to remember.

Another time, we were on Lake Pymatuming, which straddles Ohio and Pennsylvania. That was a lake where my father liked to troll for walleye, and so we went back and forth along these long, narrow waters. Once more we were caught in a storm, but this time we had to fight the wind and the waves. The rain pounded the windshield, and my brother and I huddled beneath the canopy, greatful for the break from the elements. My father stayed back, I think maybe to balance the boat, and was pounded for an hour. Because the waves were so large, we went past the entrance to the harbor before turning so that the waves would be at our back; my father did not dare expose our sides. When we were safely ashore, he admitted to being afraid. I was grateful that he did not let on.

The APE and the outboard motors are still in existence, but are currently in drydock at my oldest brother's house. He is replacing the floor, the seats, and the canvas. Other than that, it's like new.

Labels: memoir

I checked with family, and learned that the first trailer my father bought for that first boat was a kit purchased from Sears. This is a throw-back to the day when almost anything could be purchased from Sears, and harkens back to the days of America's rural, innocent past, when, once the natives were cleared from the land, only a catalog was needed to turn forest and prairie into a subsistence farm with a sod house, and, eventually, turn that into a corporate farm with twelve-hundred head of hormone-injected dairy cows, and genetically engineered feed.

The trailer was delivered in several large boxes. My father and brother tore open the boxes, laid out the pieces on the lawn, and assembled it as if it were just some over-sized Chinese puzzle. That did not go well. Things didn't fit quite right (who knows if they read the instructions) and had to tear it apart and start over.

They realized one of the pieces was missing, and so the project was delayed. This being the era of telephone operators and typewritten letters, it was two weeks before they could try again. The only remaining challenge was setting the boat supports at the proper distance for the twelve-foot aluminum.

I wish there was a more interesting kicker for this one, like the trailer coming to pieces somewhere north of the Dells on that trip to Minnesota, and the boat skipping across the highway and, ironically, crashing into a reefer truck laden with frozen fish (such a story would stand proudly beside the giant mixing bowl tale). My father had something like that happen, but that story will have to wait until I broach the subject of camper-trailers.

I'd be amazed and shocked to hear of such a kit these days (although I know they exist) when it's so easy to buy a boat with a trailer and the shopping mall-like dealerships. In the era of four-dollar a gallon gasoline, it may be twelve-foot aluminum rowboats, intended for fishing, that once more reclaim our lakes.

Labels: memoir

Maritime disasters all seem to be unique, and each has their own, bizarre sequence of events that led to their untimely demise. The Edmund Fitzgerald was loaded with oar, caught by a storm, and took on too much water; the Titanic sped with over-confidence into the iceberg laden waters of the the North Atlantic, and the builder's use of brittle steel and inferior rivets made it incapable of withstanding the breech in its hull; the Poseidon, of course, was caught by a freak, tsunami-launched tidal wave that capsized it, killing all but five passengers.

But every single boating accident has one thing in common: they all began because someone decided they really wanted to buy a boat. My father bought his twelve foot aluminum in May of 1961 for $164.68. Oh how it must have been exhilarating to start the spring with a two-year old toddler, a pregnant wife, and an aluminum boat. There is no mention in my mother's financial log of the purchase of a trailer, so, no doubt, the boat was transported on racks attached to the top of their Ford.

From my own memories, there was a trailer for the boat, and for a number of family vacations, the boat became a way to transport camping supplies. I remember a trip to northern Minnesota, back to where my father's grandparents homesteaded, during which we camped, and put the boat in a smallish lake to fish. It was still probably a row boat at that point, but perhaps it had a small outboard by then, and the focus of each day was getting the boat in the water to fish.

My mother had a deadly fear of water. The one time I recall her in it, she gripped both sides of the boat as she herself was gripped by terror, her eyes wide and staring without seeing. There had been an incident in her past involving water, and she did not want to relive any part of that incident. My father was very cynical of this; he did not understand her fear, nor why she would not confront it, and so there is just that single image I have of her in that boat.

I don't know if my parents ever argued over that boat. If they did, it would likely have been over the succession of outboard motors that began. Different lakes impose different limits on the size of the motor, some as small as one horse power, others allowing up to ten horsepower. My father had a variety, with one horse, two horse, two-point-five, five, and nine-point-nine. With each one was a gas tank, and so, along with the clutter in the garage, there was also the expense involved. And what good is a boat if you don't invest the time to actually go fishing. My father was in the habit of taking a week's vacation in the summer to fish with other men. Perhaps that was the secret of their marraige, the guaranteed separation, time for each to be without the other, and so the boating paraphernalia was a worthy investment.

So what was the disaster with this boat? Only in that the family outgrew it, and led my father to believe that he needed a newer, larger boat. That is a dangerous itch to scratch, and one that, time reveals, can not be relieved. As for the boat, my brother now has it, 47 years after it joined the family. He has replaced the rotten wood, and proven it sea-worthy. Without question, my father got his money's worth from that boat. I only worry that the boat may seek its vengeance on the second or third generation. Putting a boat in the water is like keeping a gun in the house: at some point, there's going to be an accident.

Labels: memoir

My father was a fisherman and thus began his tragic love affair with boats. His first boat was a twelve-foot aluminum purchased at Sears. It had two bench seats, and my Dad customized that with extra benches around the inner rim, his theory being that he could rest equipment and make his fishing more effective. My brothers and I watched with great anticipation as the boat took shape. I imagined grand afternoons on the water, touring, blasting through waves, and generally having fun. I was young and naive, and had no idea that, where my father was concerned, boats, water, and fun just didn't mix.

This will be an ongoing series, that will continue with those first forays onto the water, the inevitable upgrade of boats, and the few bright moments that somehow slipped into his dealing with water craft.

Labels: memoir

A few years after I finished college, after having held down a very conventional, suit and tie job for over three years, I decided to get a Master's degree in my field, Computer Science. I pursued this with a mixed agenda, something that has been a problem for me all of my life. On one hand, I wanted to give up corporate life, and pursue teaching at the community college level, and I figured I just needed a master's to do this. On the other hand, I figured the degree would refresh my knowledge, and help me get the specific job I wanted back in the corporate world in case the teaching thing was not what I hoped it would be. If I had a third hand (well, really, wouldn't that be awkward, and lead to some very unfunny jokes) it would have held the secret idea that I wanted to be a writer, and I was going to spend my time at graduate school writing something wonderful that would save me from having to deal with either of my first two hands. I was completely, totally wrong about all of my agenda items.

That third hand held my life dream firmly. I have always loved reading, especially fiction, and at some point in high school, while working on stories for our required journal writing in a very bad English class, it clicked in my head that writing stories for people to enjoy the way that I enjoyed what others had written must be the greatest thing in the world to do, and I wanted to do that. I wanted to write.

I kept that dream a not-so-secret secret even as I got an Engineering degree and started my corporate job. I read as much as possible during that time, figuring I could learn how it's done just by reading. I accumulated dozens of books. Hundreds in fact. I bought most of them used, in the Dawn Treader book shop in Ann Arbor, but plenty of them new, and I kept them in the best possible shape that I could. I spent evenings studying a very thick dictionary to improve my vocabulary. I read books on the art and craft of writing. I was more boring than death.

The ultimate downside of caring about the books that you read is that you are loathe to leave them behind when you move from one place to another. When I decided to go to graduate school, I moved back into my parents' house near Cleveland, and my parents helped with the move. Thank God I had made a couple of friends while working, as they helped me move out of my Michigan apartment. (Actually, I should just thank Brian.) My father complained the entire time because of the amount of stuff, but it all fit into a smallish trailer we pulled behind his van.

The stuff all went into my father's garage, and I slept in the bed I had grown up in, and I had effectively reversed and returned eight years of adulthood. I am a child at heart, but nothing underscores it quite like moving back home.

I was in good company as my older brother was back at the house for somewhat similar reasons. Luckily, he had had enough, and bought a house shortly after graduate school began, and he invited me to live with him. I accepted, but our moving company, Dad With a Van, would have nothing to do with it. If we wanted to move, we had his blessing, but not his strong back.

We enlisted a number of friends from childhood for the move. It was a relatively easy move, but the numerous boxes with my name scribbled on the side in black marker stood out. They were small but heavy, surprisingly heavy, in fact, and made little noise when shaken. If they were dropped, I didn't complain. Finally, Jay, caring his twelfth small, heavy box into the attic where I would sleep, broke down
in the middle of the stairs.

"What the hell is inside these boxes," he asked. "Bricks?"

"Books," I said.

"Books? What kind of books? Books about bricks?"

I had encoded the boxes on the outside so as to know their contents and make unpacking a little simpler, so I studied the box for a moment to find the answer. "Those are telephone books," I said.

Jay was understandably confused, and so I took a moment to explain. It all got back to my secret desire to be a writer. At some point, as I was studying words in a very thick dictionary, it occurred to me to also study the names in the phone book to get a feel for the type of names one finds in an area. This got a little out of hand because of my corporate job, which caused me to travel to a different place every week for nearly a year. I took the phone book out of every hotel where I stayed, and quickly amassed a huge collection of phone books from across this great country of ours. I had eight boxes packed with phone books.

I truly believe Jay would have been happier if I had told him those boxes were filled with bricks. But, then, if I had had a large amount of bricks to move, we would have used a hod rather than cardboard boxes.

I still haven't figured out how to be a writer, and so I've chickened out and stuck with the corporate jobs all these 22 years. I don't study the dictionary anymore, and I've never had reason to look at the phone books for a name to use in a story. Jay is no longer with us, having passed away at a very early age from cancer. So when I look at those phone books on the bottom shelf in my basement, surrounded by my scores of books, I can't help but picture the look on his face as he glared up at me from the middle of the staircase, the small, dense, cardboard box at his feet, as I told him it was filled with telephone books.

"You prick," Jay said. "You have got to be shitting me." But, as is so often the case in life, I was not shitting him.

Labels: memoir

I started listening to National Public Radio when I was at the University in Ann Arbor, and I got a job in Detroit forcing a 40 mile commute, each way, everyday. I feasted on the substantial content to keep my mind occupied, and I appreciated the thoughtful turn of phrase offered. They seemed to care about their subjects, and committed a decent amount of time to stories.

The habit of listening to NPR has continued for more than twenty years. I've learned the cadence and humor of all the newscasters, and grown fond of all of them. It's just a bit like sitting in a room with people I like, so comfortable am I with the sound of their voices.

In the year 2000, they played a story in honor of the 60th anniversary of Bugs Bunny. I was tickled because, being a child at heart, I love Bugs Bunny cartoons (well, to be exact, I love those created by Robert McKimson during the 1950s). There was something I didn't quite like about their filmography of Bugs. And for the first time in my life, I was moved to take action.

If you have two minutes to spare, and a Real Media player installed, you can listen to the filmography here.

Then, if you have three more minutes, you can listen to my response to their story.

And that, ladies and gentleman, may be the closest I ever get to fame and fortune.

Labels: memoir, story

When I landed my first job after college, it was in Columbus, Ohio, and I was living in Cleveland at the time. I had picked out an apartment during one visit, but I needed to return there to sign the lease. On a warm, sunny Friday in August, I borrowed my father's Delta 88 and drove to Columbus.

Two friends accompanied me, Ron and The Swan. Our plan was to sign the lease, have some lunch, maybe bum around, and then return to Cleveland. It's a two hour drive, and I was happy with the company. Ron I had met at school, and The Swan was from the old neighborhood. We all played hockey together. At the time, we thought we had everything figured out.

Signing the lease was trivial. By 11 am, we were all done. The Swan then suggested we go downtown, because it turned out there was a girl who worked there whom he had met at Put-In Bay earlier that summer, and he wanted see her.

We all tramped into the Treasury Building, and wound up in her office space. The Swan bought flowers on the way, and she was impressed by that, but couldn't get away at the time.

The three of us decided on lunch at a T.G.I. Friday's®. I don't remember exactly where, but those places were everywhere then, and all the rage. The staff wore the red striped shirts and suspenders, as they still do. The menu is still probably the same, but I don't remember what we ate.

What I do remember is that the bartender was a handsome, thickly built, blonde woman. She was friendly, but, then, those people are mostly paid to be friendly. She seemed friendlier, though, as we began to drink.

We passed the time telling stories from our hockey days, and from our school days, and from the old neighborhood. The Swan had quite a few conquests with women (more than I'll ever achieve — not that I'm keeping score) and he regaled us with those stories even as he became friendlier with the bartender.

When happy hour was announced, we were feeling pretty tight already. The bartender — I believe her name was Diane — was feeding us drinks without charge. She poured one horrible drink, a Green Lizard, made with 151 proof rum and Green Chartreuse®. It was awful but effective.

Ron was inspired to blow fireballs with 151 proof rum, which, it turns out, is frightening indoors, but quite a crowd pleaser (other than the woman whose jacket was singed).

At six p.m., Diane's shift ended, and she had the bright idea of joining us on our trip back to Cleveland. First though, she wanted to stop by her place and get some pot. Nothing says "What the heck" quite like a drug run with a strange woman after six hours of drinking.

Without much more thought or discussion than what has been presented here, we started back for Cleveland. Because I was driving, I passed on the doobies (safety first kids!). Ron just completely passed out. From the exhaustion of the day's activities, conversation became a little more strained. The last hour drive was quiet.

There was also the little problem of Diane. Having spent the afternoon with her, I wanted nothing more to do with her. I didn't even want her in my father's car, let alone smoking fat ones in the back seat. The Swan had actually been the most friendly with her, but there was no discussion of where she would stay, or how she would return to Columbus. I began to suspect that Ron's unconsciousness was something of a convenient way to stay clear of trouble.

I pulled into The Swan's house, and hoped for the best. I helped Ron go inside (he rented a room from The Swan). Swan bid me good night, and Diane followed him inside. I drove the rest of the way back to my father's house with the windows down, hoping to air out the car.

When I moved to Columbus two weeks later, I made a point of never returning to that T.G.I. Friday's®.

Labels: memoir

My family threw a party the day I graduated from high school. It's was just an open house. Our extended family was there, but what I really hoped for was to have a bunch of my friends from high school there. Not a lot of them showed up.

The trick is that there were probably fifteen other parties, and so everybody is going from place to place, and that was that.

We had a keg (this was back when you could get your friends drunk at these parties--now you can't) but no one to drink it. My extended family was more into booze than draft beer. So as the evening wound down and still no crowd, one of my older brothers suggested that we, the two of us, try to drain that keg before morning.

Our house was small, but behind the detached garage there was an enclosed patio. In summer we would sleep there often, and this was where the keg was placed. So we sat on either side of the keg and stared at the trees and shrubs out back as we drank.

In the middle of the night, my father came out to check on us. He pulled up a chair and joined us.

My father flew F-86 jets for the Air Force in the 1950s. So he had quite a few stories, and he told a couple of doozies that night. He was stationed in Europe, and was the wingman for a larger-than-life character that led him on great adventures in France and West Germany. (Those stories will have to wait for their own blog entry.) As the stories wound down, he got a bit reflective and philosophical, and gave us the following advice.

You'll probably get married someday, and when you do, you'll be faced with morale choices. You'll have to decide for yourself about staying faithful to your wife, and how you raise your family.

We didn't say anything after that. It was dark, almost pitch black, and we were still drinking and probably half-drunk. I thought there was maybe something else he wanted to say, but I didn't know how to probe that subject, or how to ask an appropriate follow-up question. So it just stayed exactly how it was: an enigmatic riddle with no answer. He said, "Good night boys," and then left us in the dark.

I was the youngest, and I had just graduated. In my egocentricity, I had thought that the day was all about me. But it dawns on me now, right this moment as I type, that perhaps he was reflecting on his own life, rather than helping us shape what we might become.

He had gotten his youngest son to manhood and, strictly speaking, he was no longer obligated to do a damn thing for us. That former jet pilot was beholden to no one at that moment. He had done what nature intended: he procreated three boys, got them to adulthood, and his part in the circle of life was over.

I don't know if he was elated and relieved, or full of dread and regret. I don't know if he wished he had done things differently. I don't know if he wanted to chuck it all and start a new life, or if this was everything he ever hoped for in life. I just don't know.

My brother and I kept drinking until dawn. We didn't talk about what Dad said. In fact, I don't remember anything we talked about that night except what Dad said. If my brother reminds me of something else, I'll add it here, but I just remember the dark, and the stupidity of drinking cold beer on a cold summer night just for the sake of drinking it. I assume we had some music playing (there was an eight-track tape player in the patio) but maybe not.

We faced west, and so the trees began to show light at the top as dawn crested behind us. We did not finish the keg, but we put a world of hurt on it. We left the patio, peed one last time on the shrubs, and made our way to the house.

And thus my adult life began.

Labels: memoir, story